


The Idealist and the Maleficar

by betagyre



Category: Dragon Age II, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Blood Magic, Corruption, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dark Tom Riddle, Dom/sub, Everyone Has Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Magisters, Minrathous, Organized Crime, Venatori
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: A crossover set in theDragon Age IIworld.Hermione Granger, of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, escapes after overhearing a depraved templar’s vile plot. She hopes to find her old friend Harry, but when the templar tracks her down, a Tevinter noble who owns property in the city, Magister Thomas Riddle, comes to her rescue. He is charming, intelligent, handsome, and magically powerful: seemingly perfect. But as she grows ever closer to him, she realizes that he is hiding some extremely dark and troubling secrets. However, the city authorities are also compromised, and Kirkwall is careening inexorably toward a crisis....





	1. The Unexpected Apostate

**Author's Note:**

> This story is going to be rather unlike my previous Tom/Hermione stories, as you can see, because it is a crossover with a few Potterverse characters and a _lot_ of _Dragon Age_ characters, set in the _Dragon Age_ universe—specifically, the shady, creepy city of Kirkwall, the main setting of the second video game of the series. This story will take place in tandem with the events of that game, more or less.
> 
> I realize that some readers of this story opened it because of the main pairing and don’t have a lot of familiarity with the setting. Wherever there is some back story or setting-specific explanation needed, I’ll attempt to include some exposition (and hopefully not hijack the story with that sort of thing). But this is not really intended to be a serious story, unlike my _Choosing Grey_ and _Serpentine Moves_ AUs. I am deliberately using dark fairy tale tropes in this, so although there will be some heavy and dark moments in the story—and I’m not going to assert that _anything_ novel-length that I write is “lighthearted”—overall it is meant to be basically a fun read.
> 
> If you haven’t read any of my Tom/Hermione stories before, and you opened this because you’re intrigued by the ship with Harry or the crossover itself, be aware that the Tom/Hermione ship is going to be the primary one. However, in outlining this, I realized that Harry/Hawke is extremely important too, and I hope to do it justice. I am not going to have that many Potterverse characters appear here, but there are others who might show up later on.

_Kirkwall, Dragon 9:33_

Enchanter Hermione Granger awaited her audience with the Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Circle, Meredith Stannard. Her heart thumped nervously, even though she knew that she was in the right. The problem was that being in the right did not always matter to the ferocious Knight-Commander.

Hermione had lived in this place for thirteen years, since she was seven years old. Over the course of these years, she had seen many a fellow mage come and go—in various senses. There were those who failed their Harrowings and were summarily executed. There were those unfortunates who, for various infractions (and Hermione sometimes wondered if the infractions were real or imagined), were made Tranquil, permanently stripped of their free will, their psychic connection to the Fade, and their ability to do magic. This fate seemed far worse than death to her, essentially like losing one’s very soul—and most especially given what she had just overheard a few of the templars discussing.

A few mages had actually escaped. Her old friend, Harry, had been one of those. With the help of the so-called Mage Underground, a clandestine organization in the city of Kirkwall, he had escaped the Circle of Magi three years ago through some alleged basement in the Gallows—the grim, yet apt, name for the structure that held the Circle—and had joined the Grey Wardens, who welcomed mages into their ranks, granting them immunity from the Circles in the southern countries of Thedas where the White Chantry held sway. That was Hermione’s backup plan if—but no, she wouldn’t think it just yet. The Knight-Commander was a harsh woman, and it was clear to Hermione that she disliked her mage charges, but surely she would not condone the abuse and rape of mages who had been made Tranquil for literally no reason.

 _And I have never given her an ounce of trouble,_ Hermione consoled herself. _I have always kept to my studies, kept my head down, and obeyed the rules. The only time I ever broke the rules was when I kept Harry’s secret for him until he was safely out of the Gallows, and nobody knew that, let alone the Knight-Commander. I passed my Harrowing with flying colors. And her deputy, Cullen, seems to have a soft spot for me._ Hermione did not think that was her imagination. The handsome young templar always gave her a shy smile when he encountered her in the halls of the Circle. It made her a little uncomfortable, since she did not return any attractions he might harbor—and even if she had, a relationship between a mage and a templar was verboten—but perhaps his seeming fondness for her would be a point in her favor when she spoke to the Knight-Commander about the vile plans that Otto Alrik and his cronies were making for her.

“Enter,” came the cold voice of Meredith Stannard, interrupting her thoughts. Gingerly Hermione cracked the door open and shuffled inside.

The first thing she noticed was that Knight-Captain Cullen was not there, nor was anyone else but Meredith herself. The woman glared down at her with ice in her eyes.

“What have you to tell me, mage?”

Hermione’s heart instantly sank, but she mustered her courage as well as she could. “I overheard the templar Otto Alrik and two of his associates—I could not identify them, unfortunately—discussing something that I thought you should know about.”

The Knight-Commander’s nose turned upward oh-so-slightly in skepticism.

Hermione took a deep breath. She was in it now, so she might as well see this through. “They were speaking of abusing the Rite of Tranquility for—perverted reasons,” she said in a rush. “I overheard them talking about making certain young mages—including me,” she added in a squeak, “Tranquil without cause, so that they could… abuse them. Carnally.” Hermione stared at the floor, ashamed of herself. She personally felt that the Rite of Tranquility was a crime against nature, and certainly not in accord with what the Maker would wish for his children, but the Knight-Commander had a vastly different opinion, and it was strategic to attempt to phrase this in a way that would appeal to her. _An abuse of the Rite._

Meredith Stannard sat in her chair, her imposing Templar armor reminding Hermione the whole time of how easy it would be for this woman to decide to drain Hermione’s mana—her internal source of magical energy—in a Holy Smite, striking her down, helpless on the ground until her strength recovered.

Finally the templar spoke. “I had hoped,” she ground out, “that there were _some_ mages who were not given to deceit and sin. I had hoped that you might be one of them. Even though I knew that you were the best friend of that escaped apostate, Potter, I considered it _possible_ that he kept his own counsel and had not involved you. But for you to fabricate such an offensive story about my templars—”

“It’s true!” Hermione cried, fear suddenly flooding her body.

“Enough! How dare you interrupt me? How dare you slander my templars in such a way? You mages merely despise Alrik because he is less tolerant of your ways than I am. Who put you up to this, mage?”

“I wasn’t put up to anything!” she protested. “I overheard them talking about it!”

The Knight-Commander glared at Hermione, disbelief and contempt manifest in her face. “If you are protecting anyone, know that they will not thank you. And if you think that you did concoct this lie all on your own, I am sure that you are deceived in that, and that it is in truth the whispering of a demon of the Fade that is prompting you to do this. I have long suspected that the Harrowing is insufficient as a way to eliminate the possibility of demonic influence on weak mage minds. Now, take yourself out of my office at once.”

Hermione’s heart was beating so hard that she could see her robes moving here and there at various pulse points. She felt vaguely lightheaded, though she knew that the templar had not done anything to her to cause that. It was simply the rush of her physical reactions to a frightening situation.

 _She didn’t believe me,_ Hermione thought as she hurried into her dormitory, shuffling past a templar guard whose face was covered by a helmet. _She called me a liar! She didn’t even try to be fair about it and investigate my claim._

Hermione curled into a ball on the floor, hovering on one side of her shabby little bed. _Harry wrote to me in code,_ she thought. _He sent me that coded letter telling me how to escape—how he escaped—if I ever had to do it. I guess I have to do it now. That foul man is going to—_ Her mind would not complete the thought.

She breathed deeply, in and out, until she was in control of herself once again. The letter was folded and stuffed into a pocket in her robes, because the templars occasionally did sweeps of the mages’ quarters. Even though the instructions were written in a coded form, it was not worth the risk to Hermione. This letter was too precious to hazard losing.

 

 _There is a basement below the Gallows where, I believe, smugglers carry lyrium to the templars who are addicted,_ Harry had written in code. _This is the place you need to make for. After you escape into Darktown, you need to find a way to the street and locate a dwarven merchant named Varric Tethras or a young human woman named Emma Hawke. Either will help a runaway mage. They can often be found at a pub called The Hanged Man, which is in Lowtown. They know me._

_Since joining the Grey Wardens, I have learned some things about them that make me wonder if I really should recommend them to you… but in truth, I have little doubt that you would succeed as a Warden, and it is really the best outfit for a mage in the southern nations. We mages do not have to hide our magic as Wardens, which is more than can be said about a life as an apostate._

 

Since receiving the letter last year, Hermione had often wondered what gave Harry pause about the idea of her in the Grey Wardens, or what he meant by “succeed as a Warden.” Hermione was trained in all Schools of Magic, but had specialized in battlemagic. It seemed that an ancient order dedicated to fighting darkspawn and Blights would be a perfect fit for talents such as hers. It was certainly better than awaiting the loss of everything that made her human, only to be turned into a mindless slave for rapists.

 _I will take my own life before I let them do that to me,_ Hermione vowed, folding her letter again. She sat back, forcing her mind to follow rational, logical, _productive_ thought patterns. _A plan,_ she thought. _I need to make a plan. It is momentous and life-changing, but I have to do it._

* * *

Hermione had not dared to write back to Harry with her plans. She was not sure how much time she had, and she could not afford to wait for him to reply. The Grey Wardens patrolled the coasts of the Free Marches quite a lot, and Harry was usually on a mission with them. Then, too, she knew that the Knight-Commander would consider any correspondence from _her_ as manifestly suspicious after that disastrous interview. If Harry’s prior word was to be believed, the Mage Underground was on the lookout for runaways and did not require prior notice. All she needed to do was to find this dwarf Varric Tethras or the woman Emma Hawke.

 _How simple,_ Hermione thought wryly as she packed up her few possessions. She was bringing her letters from Harry, her personal diary, her staff, and the rectangular book locket in silverite that held little paintings of her parents.

 _I suppose this is what they would have wanted,_ she thought, closing the locket and tucking it under her cloak. Her parents had both been mages as well, and healers.

 _Apostate mages,_ Hermione thought. It was peculiar to think of applying that term to herself—rather like “heretic,” or even “maleficar,” the Chantry’s appellation for mages who used blood to enhance spells rather than enhancing their magic with the lyrium mined out of the earth or just relying strictly on their innate magical strength. But so it would be now, at least until she joined the Grey Wardens. She would be an “apostate,” a mage who was not in a Circle.

 _Like Mother and Father,_ she thought. That they had perished in blood and screams thirteen years ago was a thought that she pushed out of her mind.

Her mother had been Nevarran, the daughter of minor nobles who protected her rather than turning her over to a Circle. She had been trained by a Marcher apostate hired by her parents for the task, and he ultimately became Hermione's father. When they were found out as mages, they had to take to the hills. There they had lived for seven years, until the templars finally found them.

Hermione sighed heavily. She was going to join the Grey Wardens. None of that was going to happen to her. _The problem is when mages attempt to live normal lives as spouses and families,_ she thought miserably.

Hermione passed Cullen Rutherford, Knight-Captain, in the corridors. The blond man gave her that shy smile again. Hermione wanted to slap him for his naïveté.

 _You are working alongside rapists and your boss is an enabler of rape,_ she thought. _Can you not see it?_ But no, as much as it pained Hermione, she knew that Cullen was, like her, an idealist at heart.

 _I hope I am never as blind to the faults of a mage as he is to the faults of fellow templars,_ Hermione thought as she continued her path inexorably downward, leaving behind the naïve templar admirer, the self-righteous Knight-Commander, and the Circle itself.

 _Once I am safe,_ she thought, _I will tell this Mage Underground, or those people Harry knows, about Alrik’s plot. It will be stopped, one way or the other._

* * *

In a bit, Hermione found herself in the Gallows basement. It really did exist, much to her surprise—and from the look of it, it was indeed used to smuggle excess lyrium to the templars who had out-of-control addictions to it. Hermione did not doubt for a second that non-magical people who used it would become addicted. She doubted that it was truly benign even for mages and always attempted to use her own magic before resorting to the stuff.

No one was in sight, though. That was just—not right. Hermione wondered for a a moment about a trap, but no, _Harry_ wouldn’t do that to her. She was just nervous. It was entirely natural. If she were caught now—if the templars found her in an obvious escape attempt—she could be summarily executed. Of _course_ she was nervous.

She turned corners, hiding herself in the darkness as well as she could. Her black cloak helped shield her, even though she saw no eyes and heard no footsteps. She just would not be at ease until she was safely in the custody of Tethras and Hawke.

Hermione took a deep breath and trudged ahead into the darkness of Darktown, the old tunnels beneath the city where the poorest of the poor lived— _if you can call it that,_ Hermione thought, gazing around at the despair of the denizens. Stringy, ill-favored people hunched over feeble fires, shady transactions conducted in hushed but threatening voices, drops of blood here and there. No one would live in Darktown unless they had no other choice.

Hermione continued her brisk walk, exciting little attention. A man seated before a cooking fire leered at her with a snaggle-toothed grin, but he made no move to attack her.

Something felt _off._ This was too easy. Her scalp prickled with tension as she walked, faster and faster—

“There she is!”

That was not the voice of Varric Tethras. Hermione did not know what the dwarf sounded like, but she recognized _this_ voice. That was the voice of—

“The Knight-Commander said to be on guard for her to escape! Of course she was right.”

Outrage and betrayal flooded Hermione at that. So the Knight-Commander—a _woman—_ not only did not believe her, but she had actively _tipped off_ the would-be rapists about her suspicions.

 _Would-be, my arse,_ Hermione corrected herself in thought, readying her magic. _They are already rapists. I would just be another victim for them._

She quickly counted the templars. Alrik and two—no, three—of his friends lurked in the shadows. None of the Darktown inhabitants made any move to come to her aid. In fact, several were discreetly easing away, not wanting to be in the middle of a fight between a mage and templars.

Despite her general wariness of it, Hermione wished she had some lyrium now, but she did not. A forbidden thought briefly crossed her mind— _I do have my own blood—_ but she banished it in the same moment. She would not do that. She would not succumb to using blood magic, or invoke the aid of a demon of the Fade. She would stand or fall on her own strengths.

With a cry, Hermione cast a powerful elemental spell. This was not her area of expertise, but it was often the best way to disable more than one opponent at once, at least according to the books she had studied.

Two of the templars—though not the leader—froze in their tracks, turned to human ice.

Grimly Hermione gauged her remaining magical power. She could not cast another such spell immediately—but she had to do _something—_

Alrik’s remaining crony raised his sword. The reek of lyrium filled the air, and terror filled Hermione’s veins. This was the beginning of a Holy Smite. Panicking, she sent a blast of magic at the templar.

He stumbled, notably weakened, even though he was not knocked out. At least he was disrupted from ending the fight right then and there.

The two templars who had been frozen were thawing quickly. Their metal armor clinked as they moved their arms, breaking Hermione’s spell. She panicked. She did _not_ have enough mana remaining to disable them again. She took one quick glance around and decided that her best option was to run for it. Darktown had many tunnels and alleyways. She picked one and took it, running as fast as her legs could carry her. Surely the templars would be slowed down by the weight of their armor….

 _Would these people actually watch as someone was raped?_ she thought as she ran, evading people’s makeshift campfires and hovels and smuggling operations. One look at them—any of them—gave her her answer. The good ones had too many problems of their own, and were too jaded to violence and crime in this place. The bad ones might enjoy the sight. She would be on her own if, Maker forbid, they caught her.

She ran and ran, her breath heaving and catching painfully in her chest. If only she knew the closest way out of these tunnels! She could find her way to that Lowtown tavern and rely on Harry’s friends to protect her. From the sounds of it, based on other letters from him, both of them had quite a few connections to Kirkwall’s network of smugglers and organized crime.

Hermione felt the templars’ presence before she saw them. She felt her strength sapped, her stomach turning over, her magical energy drained, her muscles seemingly falling apart, unable to support her weight—

She crumpled to the ground as Alrik stood before her, his sword raised high, lyrium befouling the air all around him.

“We know the tunnels of Darktown better than you, mage,” said one of the thugs behind Alrik.

 _No!_ Hermione thought desperately. _No! I can’t let this happen._ She fumbled in her possessions for the locket. The edges were not nearly sharp enough to cut her, but perhaps she could choke herself with it.

“I’m going to enjoy this one,” the templar chortled to his buddies, who lurked in the shadows behind him. “I’ve watched her for a while now. Never let any of the others touch her, even the apostate who went to fight darkspawn.”

Hermione felt sick at the implications. Tears formed in her eyes as she grasped desperately for anything, _any_ idea to stop this—

Suddenly screams pierced the air, followed by the clanging of metal. “What in the Void—” exclaimed one of the templars, but his query turned to screams as well.

Hermione managed to raise her chin just enough to see what was happening. The four templars tumbled to the ground, the pieces of their armor scraping against each other, making a terrible sound. They dropped their swords. Blood poured from their mouths, their noses, their ears, as they gurgled on the ground, clawing at their own throats. The inhabitants of Darktown who occupied this particular lane glanced up in mild interest before quickly returning to whatever they were doing.

Hermione did not know what was happening except that her assailants were dying before her eyes, and she was _not_ the one responsible. Was this a demon? She had not asked one for help. Was this, then, someone in the Mage Underground, come to help her at last?

A tall figure stepped out of the darkness, head cloaked in dark green, face hidden by the deep shadows. A large staff was strapped to the person’s back, unused.

 _A mage,_ Hermione thought vaguely. The man—she assumed it was a man, based on the person’s height and build—ran his right hand over his left forearm. Hermione could not see what was happening as the mage stepped forward. Alrik and his fellow rapists, however, were dying or dead.

The mage finally came into the faint light. Hermione gazed up at him, managing to get at least to a seated position. It was better than lying prone on the filthy ground. His face was still somewhat hidden, but she could tell that he was extremely handsome and probably not too many years older than she herself was.

Alrik gurgled out his last breath in a clot of blood as the mage stepped on his hand. Making a point of crushing the dead templar’s bones with all his weight, the mage leaned over, rifling through Alrik’s possessions.

“Aha,” he muttered, withdrawing a glass bottle filled with a red fluid. Hermione instantly recognized it for what it was. That was her phylactery, the vessel filled with her blood that the templars used to track down escaped mages. It must be how they had found her here, how they had been waiting in the very spot she had been walking.

Her rescuer drew his arm back and threw it as hard as he could at the stone floor, shattering it. He then reached for his staff, detaching it from his—robes, Hermione supposed, though they looked far more like noble clothes to her—and casting a fire spell to burn away the fluid that had spattered on the ground of Darktown. The mage looked over and extended a hand to Hermione wordlessly.

She did not think twice. Not for a second did it cross her mind to distrust this mage. He had just saved her. And clearly, someone who could take out four templars with a single spell was not someone she stood a chance of defeating if she _did_ decide to distrust him. She reached for his hand and allowed him to lift her to her feet.

“Escaping the Circle?” he murmured, gripping her tightly around her waist to support her weight and keep her from falling again.

“Obviously,” she muttered. “What did you just do? Was that my ph—”

“Your phylactery, yes,” the mage said, disgust trickling from his words. “They cannot track you ever again. You are truly free now.”

Hermione felt a rush come over her at that. Despite impossible odds, she was free. She had successfully escaped the Circle, and the rapist templars not only would not get her, but they would never harm another mage again. They were dead, killed by… whatever this mage had done.

“Are you with the Underground?” she asked in a low voice as he guided her down the alley.

He gave her a wry smirk. “In a manner of speaking.”

Hermione wondered what _that_ meant, but she did not inquire further.

“What, may I ask, was your plan after escaping?”

Hermione kept her voice very low as she replied. “I was going to find two people in Lowtown who know a friend of mine—another escaped mage—who joined the Grey Wardens. I was going to join him.”

The mage accompanying her stopped cold and gave her a look of concern. “Join the Grey Wardens?”

“That was the idea, yes. Where else can a mage of the south be safe? No one has troubled my friend since he did.”

The mage resumed his pace, staring ahead, his brow furrowed.

“Is that… not a good idea?” Hermione ventured. She was suddenly worried for Harry. “Is everything all right with the Grey Wardens? I hope nothing has happened to them!”

“No, nothing has happened to them,” the mage said. “Ah—here we are.” He entered an empty shack, which revealed a ladder heading up to what seemed to be a manhole. “Allow me.” He raised his hand and blasted the manhole open with magic. Sunlight flooded the hovel.

“That leads to the street, I take it,” Hermione said.

“It leads to an alleyway just behind my house in Hightown, in fact,” said the mage.

“Your house in _Hightown?”_ Hermione was startled. Hightown was the district of Kirkwall where the nobles and wealthy merchants lived. How could an apostate mage—a mage who openly carried a rather large and ornate staff, at that—live in Hightown?

“Indeed.” The mage seemed pleased at the reaction that this had engendered; his handsome face broke into a cocky smirk. “Have you lived in the Circle all your life?”

Hermione did not much like the implicit disdain of that question. “No, I have not,” she said curtly. “I was brought to it at age seven after my apostate parents were killed.”

His face changed. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “But you have never lived in Kirkwall itself, outside of the Circle?”

“No.”

“Ah. Well… there are a few mages who live in Hightown.”

“Just a minute,” Hermione said. “Are you—a smuggler? What exactly do you mean about the Grey Wardens, too? You didn’t answer me.”

“Yes, I did. You asked if anything had happened to them.” He smirked at her.

Exasperated, Hermione glared at him. “You know what I mean! You implied that there was a problem with them. What is it?”

“How much do you know about the Grey Wardens?” the mage asked, avoiding her questions.

“I know what everyone else does, I suppose,” she said. “They fight Blights, hunt darkspawn, and admit mages. My friend who joined them wasn’t sure if I should join either, now that you mention it,” she admitted grudgingly. “What’s the matter with them?”

“I think… you should consider other possibilities for living as a mage,” he said evasively.

“Living as an apostate on the run? Is that what you mean?”

“Not in the least. I do not live as an apostate on the run.”

“Apparently,” Hermione said. She glanced at the round hole through which sunlight streamed. “How is it that you have a house in Hightown?”

“I am not the only magister of the Tevinter Imperium who owns family property in foreign states such as Kirkwall.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. A magister of the Imperium—the ancient country in the north where mages still ruled, where mages were the nobility, where—

“My— _father,_ in fact, was from Kirkwall,” the magister said, clearly enjoying her reaction. He extended his hand to her again. “Thomas Riddle, of Minrathous. You have never told me your name, though I don’t hold it against you, given the circumstances.”

“Hermione Granger,” she said, gazing at the ground, embarrassed. “You’re really a magister!” She gazed at him, suddenly somewhat alarmed. Magisters were _powerful._ They used forbidden magic, and they held to a different version of the main religion of Thedas. They were often blood mages.

 _He rescued me,_ Hermione reminded herself as he helped her up the ladder into the sunlight. _He saved me from a dreadful fate. I should not be so prejudiced._

“Yes, I really am.” He was clearly amused.

She reached the surface first, blinking in the bright light. The magister’s grand house towered before her. He emerged next and capped the hole immediately, dusting himself off. In the sunlight, it was obvious to Hermione how handsome he really was—and she was even more embarrassed about noticing that fact, of all things.

“Shall we go inside?” he asked. “You may certainly try to contact your Grey Warden friend….”

“He told me about two other people in Lowtown,” she said again as they made for a side door to the grand residence.

“Are they expecting to hear from you?”

“I wouldn’t think so. I didn’t tell him when I decided to escape. It was… a sudden decision. I overheard those templars discussing the very plan that you thwarted.”

The magister’s eyes gleamed in anger at that memory. Clearly, he had heard Alrik’s disgusting comment about what he had intended to do to Hermione. “Well, you can contact them too, just in case,” he said, “but for now, you should rest. After you.” He opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the subject of dark fairy tale tropes, "Damsel In Distress rescued by (seeming) Prince Charming," check.
> 
> I am not going to update this story on a set schedule as long as _Serpentine Moves_ is ongoing. After I've finished it in a couple of months, we'll see. I still have some ideas for my 20th century Tomione AU, _A Marked Deck_ , as well. If I decide - later - that I can update this story weekly as I have done for _Serpentine Moves_ , I'll say so as soon as I have a better idea. In the meantime, thank you for reading!


	2. Explorer in the Big City

The magister’s house really was a mansion.

Hermione had never seen such wealth.  The mages’ quarters in the Circle had been very basic, almost punishingly so _(though perhaps it was exactly that,_ she thought darkly), and the small cottage she had lived in with her parents as a child had been simple.  Although her mother had been raised in a noble family and her father had lived among them to tutor her mother in magic, wealth attracted attention, and attention was what Hermione’s mage parents had not wanted.

As Hermione walked quickly from room to room, trying to keep up with Thomas’s long stride, she still managed to gape at the furnishings.  The floor was covered with marble tile and fine carpets, and the walls were… papered, she realized.  Painted portraits hung on the walls, and Hermione knew enough about art to tell that these were very good—even though their subjects were rather ill-favored.  Hermione wondered who these people were.  Surely they could not be his relatives; none of them looked the first thing like him.  Elsewhere in the rooms were ornate cabinets and mirrors, tables topped with interesting oddments, and books upon books.  Hermione caught several with titles in Arcanum, the language of Tevinter spellcasting.  She itched to read them.  However, the magister was leading her to some specific place, and she supposed she was rather at his mercy.

At last they reached a small, cozy sitting room.  The magister sat down in the most ornate chair and gestured at one on the other side of a table that stood between them.  Hermione sat down.  Her gaze was instantly drawn to the book that rested on the table, but before she could even read its title, the magister took it away and stuffed it between his body and the solid arm of the chair.  He gave her a friendly smile and reached for a bottle of some kind of spirit that also rested on the table.

“My given name is Thomas,” he said, “but among friends, it’s Tom.”

“I’m a friend?”

“If you want to be,” he said with a mysterious smile.  “Now then,” he said, picking up the bottle, “would you like refreshment?  This is brandy from home.  My home,” he clarified.  “Nectar of the Old Gods.”

Hermione was rather put off at that description.  The Old Gods of Tevinter were evil, malevolent dragons that demanded sacrifice—and that was _before_ the seven ancient magisters who were high priests of the Old Gods brought the Blight into the world, turning the dragons into Archdemons.  No one worshiped them anymore, and the Grey Wardens were dedicated to wiping them out.  So far, five were dead.  Five Blights quelled….

“Thank you, but I am actually just thirsty,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face.  “That would be counterproductive.”

Tom stared at her for a moment before smiling again.  “Of course.  Naturally.”  He picked up a silver goblet and waved his right hand over it.  Instantly, water appeared in the cup.  He handed it to her.

Hermione was impressed.  She knew how to cast ice spells, but only in battle.  She had not learned the degree of control needed to use magic for ordinary tasks such as this.  Perhaps the Circle did not _want_ people to get the idea that magic could be used benignly to make life easier....

“So,” Tom continued, pouring himself some of the brandy, “you escaped the Circle!  Although I assisted, I offer my congratulations.  Every southern mage not in those prisons is a mage living closer to how our kind should live.  In Tevinter, being a member of a Circle is a great honor, but here in these fearful countries….  Ah well.  But you said that you did not always live in that place.  I am sorry that your parents met an untimely end.  You remember them, though?”

Hermione nodded.  “They died when I was seven, thirteen years ago.  My mother was the daughter of a minor noble family of Nevarra, and my father was her former magical tutor—hired by her parents for that purpose.  They fled my grandparents’ house when the templars of Nevarra started sniffing around a little too closely—”

“It’s a wonder that templars can smell _anything_ beyond the lyrium that they quaff like they are dockside ruffians swilling rotgut,” Tom said harshly.

Hermione was stunned at the level of venom and contempt in that comment.  She raised her eyebrows at him.  “I don’t much like using lyrium either,” she said.  “It smells awful, tastes worse, and I always worry that it does to mages what it does to templars, just more slowly.”

Tom was silent, but the ghost of a smirk appeared on his face.  “I never use it,” he said.  “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“No worries!” Hermione said.  “It’s impressive that you have enough magical power that you don’t have to use it.”

“Yes,” Tom said briefly.

“Anyway… my parents left Nevarra and went into the wilds of the Free Marches, setting up house in a small rustic cottage.  That’s where I was born and raised as a little girl.  They were especially skilled at Healing.”  She sighed.  “That meant, of course, that they stood little chance when the templars finally did discover them.  Healing is not battlemagic.”

“Were they the first of their families to show magic?” Tom inquired.

Hermione wondered why he wanted to know that, but she had no objection to the question.  “My mother definitely wasn’t.  She told me that they liked to keep it a secret, but every so often, someone would manifest magic.  My father was from a common family, but he had never lived in a Circle either, and he said that he had the same family story—occasional mages now and then.”  She gazed at him.  “Another problem with being a Healer is that clients sometimes betray them for coin.  That is what happened to my parents, I think.  The band of templars that finally found our family included one who was a zealot.  He killed them… but another one showed mercy.  Those templars had come from Ostwick, but the merciful one brought me to Kirkwall because she did not think it was right for me to have to look every day at the man who had killed my parents.”  She sighed again.  “I suppose she meant well.  Kirkwall’s Circle is terrible, though.”

“It would have been more merciful if the lyrium swillers had left your family alone,” Tom said.  “Don’t spare any of them a second of sympathy.  They cost you your parents.”

“I know.”  She sipped her water.  “What about your family?”

“I have none anymore,” he said shortly.  “My parents are dead, and my uncle is dead as of last summer.  It’s just me now.”

“Oh,” she said.  “I suppose we have that in common, then.”

“That and magic.”

She smiled.  “Of course.”  Finishing her water, she set the goblet down.  “I thank you so much for helping me, back in Darktown, and for your hospitality… but I feel bad about imposing on you.  I need to find my friend’s contacts.”

The magister looked disappointed.  “Of course you want to meet your old friend again… but don’t expect it immediately.  The Grey Wardens rarely have leisure time.  I hope this isn’t the last we see of each other, though.”

“I know where to find you,” Hermione said, grinning.

“But will I know where to find you?”

“The people that my friend knows spend a lot of time in a pub in Lowtown called the Hanged Man.”

“A Lowtown pub,” he said, his lips curling faintly.  “Be careful in that place.  Perhaps I should escort you.”

“Is it that dangerous?”

“You might have to defend yourself, and even though you no longer have a phylactery, this town is crawling with templars.  They won’t meddle with _me,_ though.  I am a mage, but I am also a noble of a foreign country.  They don’t want a fight with the Imperium, trust me.”

Hermione considered his offer for a second, but she decided against it.  She actually wanted to ask Hawke or Tethras if they knew anything about this magister, and it would hardly do to ask them that while he was present.  It would be very rude to accept his escort and then expect him to leave.  Besides, Hermione wanted to prove to herself—and perhaps to him—that she could handle herself without trouble.  She didn’t want anyone, even someone who had treated her kindly, to think she was helpless.

“Thank you, but I want to do this myself.  If I run into trouble, I’ll leave no witnesses.”  Hermione was surprised at the hardness in her own words, but she felt no qualms about the prospect of killing street thugs.

Tom eyed her with newfound respect and approval.  “I like your spirit,” he said.  “Try to stay _out_ of trouble, though.”

“I will do my best.  Thank you again.”

“You are welcome to return here if these friends of your Warden pal don’t offer to set you up,” he said, rising with her to escort her back to the front door.  “There are plenty of rooms in this house.”

* * *

Hermione found the rowdy pub in Lowtown, the area of Kirkwall where the commoners—those who were not so desperately poor as to have to live in Darktown—resided.  Well… perhaps “found” was not the right word, when that specific door was brought to her attention because of being thrown open and a thoroughly intoxicated, bruised, bloodied thug was thrown out with a curse and an order to never come back.  But it _did_ make it apparent what establishment this was, even though Hermione momentarily wished that she had taken up the magister’s offer as she stepped over the body and walked inside….

She sat at the bar, trying to be unobtrusive, sipping her ale—which was genuinely awful.  Hermione’s experience with alcoholic beverages was limited to the occasional treats at the Circle of Antivan wine for dinner, and those days were long gone since Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard had cracked down.  However, even she could tell that this ale was the level of quality that people called piss.  She wondered if it really did contain some of that, in fact… and with that thought, she decided she did not want any more of it.

“I’m looking for someone,” she told the barkeep.  “Do you know a dwarf named Varric Tethras or a woman named Hawke?  Emma Hawke?”

The barkeep leered at her.  “You must not get out much.  Everyone knows them.  Right over there.”  He pointed a grubby finger at a table where two human women, a human man, and a dwarven man chattered and laughed.  Well—the human man was not doing much laughing, but he was in the company of those who were.

Hermione thanked him and got up, leaving her mug at the bar.  She walked toward the table.  As she approached, one of the women, a young woman with short-cropped strawberry blonde hair, looked up, realizing that someone was coming their way.  Her face tensed.

“Good evening,” Hermione said awkwardly. “You are Emma Hawke?”

The woman eyed her with eyes that were an interesting blue-green color that Hermione had rarely seen. “I am,” she said guardedly. “You are…?”

“My name is Hermione Granger. I was told by my friend Harry—Harry Potter—to look for you and your friend Varric,” she said, nodding at the dwarf.

A breeze rustled Hermione’s robes.

“Ah,” said Hawke. “You must be that mage he mentioned—” She broke off, her face suddenly hardening.

Hermione wondered what was the matter, but not for long. In the next second, Hawke had vaulted across the table acrobatically, past Hermione. With a clatter, she shoved a thuggish-looking man onto the floor and held a short, lethally sharp blade to his throat.

“Give it back,” she said through clenched teeth.

The thug gulped as Hawke’s blade pressed against his skin. He unclenched his right hand, revealing—

“That’s _mine!”_ Hermione exclaimed in outrage, picking up the rectangular locket that held miniatures of her parents. The thug had picked her pocket _that_ quickly. She had almost lost the last relic she had of them. Outrage flooded her at the thought.

“Watch yourself in here,” Hawke said to Hermione. She glared at the thug. “Let’s get something straight. If you screw with anyone at _my_ table, you are picking a fight with me. Is that what you want?”

The thug shook his head quickly.

Hawke lifted her blade. “Didn’t think so. Now get out of here.”

The thug did not need to be told twice. He made tracks for the front door and left the pub.

“Now,” Hawke said, settling herself at the table and gesturing for Hermione to take a seat. “As we were saying. Harry has mentioned you to me before. He said to be on the lookout for you in case you ever decided to escape the Circle. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

“I can’t imagine how it must be,” Hawke said. “Harry has told me plenty about it, of course, but I still cannot quite picture it.”

“Circles are terrible,” said the human man. “I’ve told you that plenty of times as well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hawke said at once. “My friends. Anders—Isabela—and you know that this is Varric Tethras already, of course.”

Hermione nodded at each of them. The beardless dwarf looked friendly but worldly, dressed in a very fine coat open halfway down his chest. A very interesting weapon was strapped to his back, something like a crossbow but much more mechanical. The other woman, Isabela, was wearing a lot of gold around her neck, a white corset, and… very little else, Hermione realized, except for the two extremely sharp blades on her back. Anders had hair that was similar in color to Hawke’s and wore a coat with strange feathered pauldrons.

“Pleased to meet all of you,” Hermione said. “You—Anders—are a mage?”

He nodded. “I also escaped the Circle, but in Ferelden.”

“You are a Blight refugee?” Although the Blight in Ferelden was over, the city still held many refugees who were unable to afford to return home.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said evasively. “I have a Healing clinic in Darktown now.”

“I escaped through Darktown,” Hermione said. She shuddered at the memory. “I was escaping a group of templars who were planning something terrible for me and other mages.”

Anders tensed. Hermione was not quite sure, but she thought she might have seen a strange flash in his eyes.

“They will never go through with it,” she assured him, “because they are dead now. I was cornered, but someone came to my rescue and killed them.”

“Dead templars are the best kind,” Anders said. “It was someone in the Mage Underground?”

Hermione frowned. “I’m not sure,” she said. “He was evasive about that. I think he must have some association with them, though, because I can’t imagine what else he would have been doing in Darktown. He is a Tevinter mage who has a house in Hightown,” she explained to the group. Their eyes all widened at that. “His name is Thomas Riddle.”

“I can think of other things that Tevinters might do in Darktown,” Anders muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s enough, Blondie,” spoke Varric, apparently referring to Anders. “Hermione—you don’t mind if I call you Hermione, do you?”

Hermione shook her head.

“I know who you are talking about, and no, Anders, he’s not one of those.”

“You know him?” Hermione said, startled. She leaned forward. “I was actually hoping to ask you or Hawke if you knew anything about him! This is great.”

“Varric knows everything about everyone in this city,” Hawke said.

The dwarf grinned at her. “I know most things, and I make up what I don’t,” he said wryly.

“You’re not… making up… what you are going to tell me, though?” Hermione said worriedly.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “What do you want to know about him?”

“Anything you can tell me. Anything _truthful,”_ she added.

The dwarf grinned approvingly at her. “All right. Your knightly, or magely, rescuer has family history in Kirkwall. It was quite a scandal, really. The house in Hightown belongs to his mother’s side of the family, who _are_ Tevinter—”

“He said he had no family left.”

“That’s true,” said the dwarf, “but the mansion came to him through them. They were what they call ‘altus’ mages, which means, basically, that they can trace the line back to the days of the First Blight. The house is as old as the city, and what _that_ means, my dear mage, is that long ago they were involved in the slave trade from when this city was the center of that.”

That was more or less as Hermione had expected and did not shock her. Centuries ago, Kirkwall had been a very important port for slavers of the old Imperium, when its name was Emerius. Most of the oldest buildings dated from that time. It made sense that Tom would own foreign property because of a reason like that, unsavory as the history was.

“However, the pretty magister’s father was not magical at all. He was a knight in the City Guard, and it was a scandal indeed, so I’m told, when the daughter of a magister fell in love with a ‘mundane.’”

“So that’s why his surname is not Tevinter,” Hermione mused.

Varric nodded. “They were even wedded in the Chantry, which was even more shocking back home, I’m sure. I don’t know if it would even be considered a valid marriage in Tevinter, since they have their own Chantry… but things got _very_ interesting when the baby—your fine savior—turned out to be a mage himself. They went home to Minrathous with him, obviously not wanting a mage child to grow up here—”

“I don’t blame them,” Hawke muttered.

“—and he proved talented enough that, despite the scandal, he was admitted to the Circle of Minrathous. That’s a great honor in that country. Unfortunately, she—his mother—died an untimely death two years ago, some say at the hands of her own brother. The uncle _definitely_ killed your magister’s father, and after that, your fellow challenged his uncle to a magical duel and won. There was some debate, I hear, but ultimately the Magisterium admitted him and granted him the family seat. He is one of the youngest magisters in history, and I will tell you this much—he has a very good reputation.”

“How do you mean?” Hermione asked, taking this all in. Tom had not said a word about killing his own uncle… though Hermione supposed she couldn’t blame him, given the circumstances.

“His reputation is that of a quiet, scholarly, buttoned-up man who keeps his hands clean in politics and focuses on magical research. Unfortunately for him, he’s considered virtually unmarriageable among the noble families of his country because his father was not a mage. They care very much about magical bloodlines.” The dwarf took a big chug of his ale, apparently finished talking, and gave Hermione a wink.

She thought about what she had just heard. It calmed her nerves a great deal to know that Tom had such a good reputation. Although she was not quite sure what to make of him just yet, she did want to see more of him. She had seen so little kindness from anyone since Harry had left the Circle….

“Well,” she finally said, “that is thorough indeed. Thank you, Varric. Is this widely known in Kirkwall?”

“Some of it,” he said, “but I know a couple of people in Tevinter too.”

“You know people everywhere,” said Isabela.

“So do you,” he said knowingly.

The woman winked lewdly at him, then turned to Hermione with interest. “So,” she drawled, “I’m curious. Does this magister have… a large staff?”

Across the table, Hawke groaned. Hermione was utterly nonplussed. Why would a person without magic be interested in the particulars of a mage’s staff? “I… suppose,” she said, bewildered. “It seemed bigger than normal to me.”

Varric stifled a snicker. Hermione still did not know what to make of this. It seemed that there was an inside joke among these people, all friends, and she was just not getting it….

“Oh?” said Isabela, mirth and delight in her bronze eyes. “Surprising. I wouldn’t have taken you for one who had much experience in that sort of thing. Or is it so big that it’s obvious to anyone?”

Hermione stared at the pirate woman, vaguely offended. “Excuse me,” she said hotly, “I _am_ a mage, and I think I know something about magical staves!”

“Hermione,” Hawke finally broke in, mercifully, “Isabela is not talking about his magical staff. She is referring to his….” The woman broke off, shaking her head.

Hermione suddenly understood. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She gaped at Isabela, who was now openly laughing at Hermione. On either side of her, Varric and Hawke were doing their best to suppress their own laughter. The mage Anders was not laughing, Hermione noted. She wondered if he found anything funny.

“Isabela doesn’t mean anything,” Hawke said through chuckles. “This is just how she is. She’s constantly making dirty jokes to everyone.”

The pirate woman raised her glass in toast, then took a swig. “She’s right, dear,” Isabela said. “It was all in fun. Though if you ever _do_ find out….” She winked.

Hermione blushed again. “That’s quite all right,” she said huffily. She turned to Varric. “I’m glad that you know so much about him, in all seriousness. As nice as he was to me, I was inherently a little nervous because he is a Tevinter magister.”

“I don’t blame you, actually,” Hawke said. “I have lived in this city for about two and a half years, and I’ve already had to deal with numerous slaver gangs who work for Tevinter magisters.”

“Well, _I_ think mages and their allies should stick together,” Anders muttered, “and not suspect each other. We need more solidarity. _You_ usually stand up for mages, Hawke.”

“Let me buy you another drink, Blondie,” Varric said with a roll of his eyes. “Or three,” he muttered under his breath.”

Hermione turned to Hawke in surprise. “Are _you_ a mage?”

Hawke hunched over her drink. “No. My father was, and my little sister is. I support them as a result, but I’m dependent on this bow and this blade—and the support of my friends.” She patted the dagger strapped to belt and the archer’s bow and quiver on her back. “The fact is, Hermione, I am widely known in this city both as an underworld figure and… lately… as a more ‘respectable’ kind.”

“Since she got back her old family home in Hightown,” Varric put in.

“You live in Hightown!” Hermione exclaimed. “That’s great!”

“People say so. However, is it worth the death of my little brother and the contamination of my sister’s blood?” Hawke wondered.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione said at once, not knowing what Hawke meant by contaminated blood, but certainly sorry for a sibling’s death.

Emma Hawke managed a brief smile. “Thank you. Harry said that you were a very kind and compassionate person, and I see that he was right. I look forward to becoming friends.” The smile blossomed into a full one. “Yes, I live in Hightown. I have a reputation in this city, but as a fairly petite woman, I’ve found that that’s often a provocation for thugs to think my rep is undeserved and challenge me….”

“But you’re quite good at putting them in their place,” Hermione assured her. She gazed in renewed interest at the red-haired woman.

“What kind of magic do you specialize in?”

“Mostly elemental,” Hermione said. “Fire is my best element. But… it’s rather showy, of course. I’d like to use a blade. Do you think…?”

“Perhaps we can practice in my house in Hightown someday,” Hawke said. “I agree: I think it only makes sense to know how to defend oneself without immediately sending up a signal to everyone that says, ‘Mage over here!’”

“That would be great!”

“Unless you have other claims on your time, of course,” Hawke said knowingly.

Hermione did not need clarification, but it was starting to annoy her a little bit that these people were all trying to set her up with Magister Riddle. She had just met him! She had just met all of them, for that matter… and she had not yet asked about Harry or her original plan.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “I was going to ask you about Harry and the Grey Wardens.”

Anders tensed, and his face soured. Hermione noticed. “You don’t like Harry? Or the Wardens?”

“I have never met him, but I am… not the biggest supporter of certain Grey Warden policies,” Anders said tightly.

“It is a hard life,” Hawke said hurriedly, “but it is because of Harry that my sister Bethany is still alive, and I’ll never forget that.” She leaned back in her chair, a fond look in her eyes. “Right now they are patrolling the coast,” she said to Hermione, “and Harry always writes to me before he comes to Kirkwall. I’ll let you know the next time he is going to be here, and you can talk to him about the Wardens… or to my sister.”

“Your sister is a Grey Warden too?”

Hawke nodded. “I was on an expedition to the Deep Roads with Varric and Isabela, and Bethany was there too, and although we achieved our goal, Bethany contracted the Taint. We were lucky to encounter a group of Wardens led by Harry, because the only way to cure it is to become a Warden. She doesn’t love it, but I think she’s become reasonably happy, since she knows someone in the Wardens.” She sighed. “She idealized the Circle, but the one in this city is not a good place for a mage. I think it’s sad that being a Warden was forced on her, though I will always be grateful for Harry for saving her life. That was the first time I saw Harry… but certainly not the last.” She smiled to herself.

Hermione suddenly believed she understood the situation. “Are you and Harry… in a relationship?”

Hawke nodded.

“He never mentioned that to me,” Hermione said, frowning.

“It is a relatively recent development,” Hawke explained. “We got together about three months ago.”

“Oh. I haven’t heard from him in a while. That explains it.”

“It’s not easy,” Hawke said, the smile suddenly fading from her face. “I would like to see him more often… and there are other, Warden-specific difficulties… but I shouldn’t actually know about that.” She gave Hermione a pointed look.

“I didn’t hear you say a thing.”

“The Wardens are too secretive,” Anders sulked. “It’s because no one would become one if they knew all their dirty little secrets.”

Hermione was beginning to second-guess her ambition to become a Grey Warden. No one had uniformly positive things to say about them, and the amount of negative insinuations was becoming so large as to dissuade Hermione entirely. What to do, though? She had escaped from the Circle and they could not track her, but that was just the beginning. She wanted to make a life for herself.

Well, Hawke was from an apostate family. “What would you recommend that I do?” she asked Hawke frankly. “I was planning to join the Wardens, but it seems like a bad idea now. You have implied some bad things about it… so has Anders… Harry even wrote to me saying that he wasn’t sure it was a good idea for me… and Magister Riddle was deeply against them for some reason. What is it about the Grey Wardens that is so awful?”

“There are things that Harry won’t even tell _me,”_ Hawke said, “but this I do know. Grey Wardens are practically infertile.” She scowled into her cup. “They are Tainted themselves, which is what I was referring to when I said that Bethany’s blood was contaminated, but somehow they have mastered it so that they don’t die or become ghouls. However, infertility is a consequence. And I suspect there are other things.”

Hermione was taken aback. “They are Tainted themselves? How? They must use magic to control it… but most of them are not mages, I thought….”

“I don’t know any more than I have told you,” said Hawke. “I didn’t get to see what actually happened to Bethany when Harry and his troop said they could save her. I suspect that it _is_ magic, of course, but it seems dodgy to me too. Probably blood magic.” She sighed. “Against the darkspawn, though, I suppose you have to do what you have to do.”

Hermione was still stunned and rather appalled. _This_ was what Harry had had to do to escape the Circle? “I… think I’ll consider other options for living as an apostate mage,” she finally said.

Hawke grinned. “My people and I always have jobs to do. You’re welcome to join in. You can even use magic as long as it’s a job that won’t leave behind any witnesses.”

“You do assassinations?” Hermione had suspected that Hawke and her friends were mercenaries, and Hawke herself had said that she had underworld connections, but assassinations…?

“We assassinate people who have it coming,” said Varric. “Carta hands, criminals, thugs… and slavers. This city is crawling with slavers.”

“And the Viscount won’t do a damn thing about any of the criminal guilds,” Hawke added harshly. “It’s pathetic. The Viscount is useless. The templars are who really run this place, and all they care about is rounding up mages. Escapees from the Circle are a bigger threat in Meredith Stannard’s eyes than Tevinter slave hunters and Qunari spies.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Hermione said acidly. “I escaped at last because I had overheard the templars that Magister Riddle finally killed talking about a disgusting plot to make mages Tranquil in order to create sex slaves for themselves. Meredith called me a liar. That was when I knew I had to get out.”

Anders’s eyes definitely flashed an odd color. “You said they are all dead, though?”

“Yes, they are dead. I don’t think any others were involved in the plot.”

His eyes returned to their normal color. “Good, then.”

_“Ten minutes to closing!”_ bellowed the bartender. “Finish up and pay if you haven’t, you lot!”

Hawke drained her mug and rose from her chair. “I will walk with you back to Hightown,” she said. “Varric prefers to stay in a room in this pub, even though he has a family home in Hightown too… Isabela will be here… and Anders is going to return to his clinic. He’ll walk with us to the entrance to Darktown from my cellar, though.”

Hermione made her farewells to the dwarf and the pirate woman, heading out the door with Hawke and Anders. It was a long, difficult walk uphill from Lowtown to the wealthy district of town, but Hermione was relieved when she saw the change in the condition of buildings.

To her astonishment, Hawke’s house was only four doors down from the magister’s mansion. Hawke stopped at her doorstep. “You are welcome to stay here if you like,” she said. “Was the magister expecting you back?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “He was very protective of me. I’d better let him know that I made it back safely.”

Hawke nodded, suppressing a smirk from her face. “I’ll assume you are staying in his home if you don’t return here.” She unlocked the door so that Anders could go inside and head to the cellar, then turned to Hermione. A strangely intense look was on her face. “Listen. I was told once, under very strange circumstances by a very strange being, that someday I might find myself standing upon a precipice… and when that moment came, ‘do not hesitate to leap.’ I would give that same advice to you.” With a friendly nudge to the shoulder, Hawke went inside.

Hermione stood at the doorstep, pondering that cryptic comment.  Hawke was clearly telling her to seize an opportunity, but Hermione could not see what opportunity that might be just yet.  Shaking her head as if to clear it, she walked the short distance to Magister Riddle’s mansion and knocked heavily at the door.

To her surprise, the magister himself opened it.  She had expected a servant… but then, she had not noticed any earlier.  Did he not keep any?  She resolved to remember to ask him… in the morning.

“You made it back,” Tom observed.  “I trust that you found the people you were looking for?”

“Yes,” she said, “and it turns out that one of them, my friend Harry’s girlfriend—Emma Hawke—lives almost next door.”

“Emma Hawke?” Tom said.  “Well, Maker, you could have just said that _she_ was the one you were looking for.  Everyone in this town knows who she is.”

“Apparently,” Hermione agreed, coming inside.

Tom was pleased.  “I feel better knowing that she is your contact… but I notice you decided to come here instead of staying with her.”

“I didn’t want you hunting me down in Lowtown,” Hermione said wryly.  “Now.  You said that you had extra rooms.”

A gleam appeared in Tom’s eyes, but it quickly faded.  “Yes,” he said.  “This way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Hawke is hiding Anders from Harry by tipping him off whenever Harry is in town. They're not having an affair; she just protects her friends (even from each other) and values freedom of choice above all. I decided not to follow game canon about Anders having to be in the party to save the life of Hawke's sibling if he/she comes along for the Deep Roads expedition. It honestly doesn't make narrative sense that the Grey Wardens who pick up Hawke's sibling wouldn't immediately take him into custody.


	3. The Gentleman of Minrathous

Hermione’s bedroom was certainly larger than any she had ever had before. She did not have private quarters in the Circle, and the room she had lived in when her parents were still alive was a small room in a rustic cottage. This was something else entirely. The bed was not draped—Hermione had heard about draped canopy beds, but she supposed that even nobility would not necessarily outfit _every_ room in their houses with them—but it was covered with a richly embroidered coverlet. The wood-paneled floor had an Antivan carpet for both comfort and decoration, and a wardrobe with the dragon insignia of Tevinter stood along the wall. Hermione noticed that her mage’s staff, which she had left behind for her jaunt to Lowtown, was in this room.

She turned around to express her admiration and thanks to Tom, but he was gone. Hermione went to the door and peered out, hoping to catch him in the hallway, but he had already gone wherever he had intended. Sighing, Hermione closed the door. As she paced around the room, she noticed an additional door that had not registered in her mind before. She opened it and gaped in surprise: A nice, if small, bathroom was before her, with what appeared to be real plumbing and gleaming frost and fire runes to control the flow and temperature of water—probably dwarven work, though it was certainly possible that the Tevinters had this kind of expertise too, she reflected. Tom _had_ been able to cast water by mixing ice and heat. The facilities in the Circle had definitely been sparse and primitive compared to this.

Hermione did not have the time to appreciate them thoroughly tonight, though. She almost fell asleep in the hot bath she made for herself. When she climbed onto the bed, she _was_ asleep within ten minutes—to have a very restful night indeed.

* * *

The Fade shimmered around her as she dreamed, familiar to a mage to an extent that it could not be to anyone else. Tonight it took the form of the magister’s mansion, though Hermione knew even in her dream that she was filling in some of the gaps, the unopened doors, the mysterious rooms she had not yet seen, with her own imaginings. Every room was richly decorated in bold, dark colors.

“I expected to see you here,” he said.

She turned around to see him, moving closer, tendrils of magic shimmering along the edges. In the Fade, the magister looked different: taller, more angular, and with a twist of sinister cruelty that was completely absent from his real face. He was also dressed differently; his robes were far more ornate and bulky than the sleek, elegant, stylish ones he wore. These seemed to be of an ancient style.

“Magister? Are you _really_ you?” she asked. “Or are you a creation of my mind—or a spirit pretending to be something else?”

His mouth curled in an asymmetrical smirk and his eyebrows lowered. “Would you believe me if I said I really was human? You won’t know that for certain until tomorrow, will you?”

She peered back at him, unafraid. “I don’t believe you are. He didn’t play games with me. If you are a demon, begone. I do not deal with your kind. And incidentally, if you had meant to upset me, you would have done better to make yourself appear as one of those templars that he killed. But I suppose it’s typical of a demon to fail at baiting a _strong_ mage.” She turned away from the Fade figure and continued her explorations, undisturbed for the rest of the dream, not observing as the entity—whatever it was—continued to stay in its place, watching her.

* * *

Hermione awoke the next morning after a period of dreamless sleep, but she still recalled the odd dream of the magister’s mansion—and the thing she had encountered. She was almost certain that it had been a demon, making itself look like Tom based on her memories—and she supposed that the differences must have come from her own negative prejudices about Tevinter. But what kind of demon had it been, if so? Certain kinds represented very simple urges, and these demons were incapable of anything approximating normal behavior. It was obvious when one encountered rage, hunger, and sloth demons, for instance. Of the more complex kinds, a desire demon would have made itself… well… desirable. It would have offered her something rather quickly. A pride demon would have offered her something as well, something to appeal to her own pride….

“Good morning,” Tom remarked as she reached the bottom of the stairs and gazed around the main hallway. Hermione looked up. There was an odd gleam in his eyes….

“Good morning,” she echoed. Surely that encounter had not _really_ been Tom… had it? Why would he make himself look like that, cruel, arrogant, and dressed like the Chantry’s depiction of a Magister Sidereal—one of the seven who had supposedly entered and corrupted the Golden City? Or… _had_ he? In the Fade, somebody else might not perceive one the way one intended. Perhaps those details _had_ been her own imagination and his “true” presentation of himself in the Fade was normal….

He said nothing in response, but continued to watch her with that curious gleam as they walked to his small dining room. Two plates of food were already laid out, and again Hermione wondered where in the world his servants were if he kept any—and if he did not, _why_ he didn’t. That dream had gotten to her, she realized with dismay as she attempted to eat her breakfast.

Finally she could not take the suspense any longer. “I slept very well, but at the beginning, I had a strange dream,” she blurted out.

Tom raised his eyebrows and gazed at her silently, waiting for her to continue.

In that moment, Hermione felt a sinking feeling as she realized the likely truth, but she soldiered ahead bravely. “I encountered a… being… in the Fade that looked like you,” she said baldly. “Was it?”

Tom continued to gaze silently at her, smiling knowingly. Hermione grew uncomfortable under his intense stare—and then finally, mercifully, he spoke.

“It was,” he said. “I have to say, I was surprised—amused, but surprised—when you almost instantly dismissed me as a demon attempting to impersonate me.”

Hermione blushed deeply. “I was just taken aback by the way you appeared to me,” she explained. “I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

He considered that. “I suppose I was… garbed… differently,” he remarked—further confirming to Hermione that the entity really had been Tom, for how else would he know what specifically put her on her guard?

“Why were you?” she asked, surprised at her own daring, but deeply curious.

Tom raised an eyebrow at her and swallowed a bite of his food. He washed it down with a sip of breakfast tea. “I should ask you why _you_ made yourself appear in the Fade in Circle robes,” he retorted. “You are a mage. You could make yourself look any way you wished in the Fade. Why choose to present yourself in the garb of subjugation—garb that, in the southern countries, is little better than the tattoos of a casteless dwarf, instantly marking you as something to be despised by those who _presume_ to call themselves your betters?” He picked up his water glass and downed it as if it were hard liquor, then stared hard at her.

Hermione was abashed, but she felt that she did not have to justify herself to him. “I am familiar with my robes,” she said. “I’ve worn them for thirteen years, and last night was the first one in ages that I have _not_ been a Circle mage. What about you? Do you actually prefer to dress like an ancient magister?”

Tom looked angry for a moment, but then, a pleased smile came over his face. “I respect your boldness,” he said. “And—no, I don’t much care for the style, to be honest. It’s fussy and heavy. The appeal to me is what it represents instead.”

“An Imperium that enslaved all of Thedas?” she challenged.

“A world in which magic was honored everywhere,” he shot back. “Surely you can understand that. You _did_ escape the Circle… or am I mistaken? Was it only to protect your own mind and body?”

“You say that as if there’s something wrong with it. I was going to be made Tranquil and used as a plaything for depraved templars. Is that not reason enough to escape?”

“It is, of course,” he agreed at once, “but… would you have tried to escape if that hadn’t happened? Were you already thinking about it?”

Hermione considered the question. “My best friend had escaped,” she said. “He joined the Grey Wardens, as you know. The thought had crossed my mind. Knight-Commander Meredith was… well, it was getting harder and harder for us. First Enchanter Orsino tries to reason with her, but his influence is limited. She has no respect for mages. There were times, on occasion, when I feared that she would need very little provocation to invoke the Right of Annulment on all of us.”

Tom’s face hardened, and for the first time, Hermione could see strong resemblance between the Tom of the Fade and the one before her. “Ah yes, the templars’ claimed ‘right’ to summarily execute every mage under their control, because they’re unable to identify the true bad apples due to being Soporati and addled by lyrium to boot. I see. You _do_ question the situation as it is. There you have it, Hermione. That is what my Fade robes mean to me. Nothing more or less.” He finished his breakfast and waited for her to finish hers.

Hermione considered the conversation she had just had with him. She knew enough about Tevinter culture to know that “Soporati” was their term for the people whom southern mages called “mundanes.” He was very strident about his views… but then, he was a product of a different culture, in which mages _were_ honored. He had also had no compunction whatever about striking down templars. _And,_ she thought, _perhaps mages should police themselves. We are not all weak and vulnerable to the first whisper from a demon. The entire point of the Harrowing is to separate the strong from the weak, and one does not become a First Enchanter without demonstrating self-control and leadership ability. Tevinter has problems, but those problems do not seem to include abominations and demons running rampant, unchecked and uncontrolled. They wouldn’t be able to have a functioning government if that happened. Perhaps their model of magical law enforcement is a real alternative…._

She finished her breakfast and rose with Tom, who led her to the same parlor where they had talked yesterday evening. She sat down in a chair as soon as he did—and then she remembered again the enigma that nagged at her.

“If I may ask,” she ventured hesitantly, “I was curious—do you keep servants? I haven’t seen any, and you answered your own door last night.”

Tom took a deep breath. He was silent for a few moments, as if considering something. Hermione waited expectantly. Suddenly a dark thought occurred to her. _Tevinter permits slavery. Surely he wouldn’t—but no, I would have seen slaves too, right?_

“Hermione,” he said tensely, “I do keep a servant in this house—one servant—in a manner of speaking. It’s… unorthodox… at least, to southern eyes.”

Hermione’s heart sank. “A slave?” she said dejectedly.

“Not a slave in the way you are thinking,” he said at once. “I will show you—introduce you—if you want, but I ask you to keep an open mind and let me explain before you judge.”

Hermione did not like the sound of that at all, but she knew she would burst with curiosity if she did not take Tom up on his offer now. Better to know the worst, whatever it was. _And if I don’t like it, I can just move in with Emma Hawke,_ she thought. _I am not bound to him. I do not have to live here._ That idea gave her comfort. “All right,” she said gingerly. “Show me, please.”

He rose from his chair and offered her his arm as they met at the doorway. Uneasily, she took it. He pulled her a bit more closely than was strictly necessary to escort her in the house—but not so close that it made her uncomfortable. She wondered about that. Orlesians, she had read at the Circle, were a very tactile people. Even the men greeted each other with kisses on the cheek. Was it also a Tevinter custom to be physical? Or was Tom… _interested_ in her? She did not know, so she did not know what to think of it.

Tom walked down the long hallway and opened a heavy door, revealing a room lit by magical fire. Tall windows overlooked Hightown—or they would have, if they were not completely covered with heavy drapes. And to Hermione’s delight, the walls were covered with shelves packed with books. Most of the magister’s rooms that she had seen last night had books, but this was a library on the level of the Circle library itself.

Tom did not give her the chance to observe the library. He led her to a small side nook that was hidden from the windows and the door. A strange blue light emanated from this room.

Hermione turned and found herself facing what could only be a Fade spirit.

Glowing blue-white, the spirit—and she was sure that it was a spirit, not a demon—had assumed a humanlike form, though with no variation in color, just shade. The spirit had assumed a female form, but very cold and monumental. Its ethereal garb was very similar indeed to the ancient Tevinter robes that Tom had worn in the Fade last night. The spirit was the image of an ancient Imperial Archon, the political leader of Tevinter.

“Aspire,” Tom said to the spirit. “This is Hermione Granger, late of the Kirkwall Circle. Hermione—I would like you to meet Aspire, who is a spirit of Purpose.”

Hermione was stunned—and frightened, if she had to admit it. This was just _wrong._ Spirits belonged in the Fade. While they should always be dealt with cautiously, most of them represented virtues, not vices, and meant well. A spirit of Purpose was one such. Encountering them in the Fade was to be expected. It was their native habitat. Spirits that were summoned out of the Fade and bound to the physical world—that was very different, and they were at risk of becoming demons, darker versions of themselves. And, too, there was only one way that Hermione knew to force a spirit to exist in the world alone, not possessing a living person—

“You summoned her and bound her by blood magic, didn’t you?” she accused Tom heatedly, whirling to face him.

Tom became very defensive. For a moment he reached for the staff on his back, but he caught himself before he had it in hand. He breathed deeply. “Hermione, let me ask you something. Did you _see_ what happened to those templars yesterday?”

Hermione had tried not to think of the details of the harrowing encounter. But now, forced to, she recalled how Alrik and his mates had bled to death, doubling over—and how Tom had cast his spell without using his staff….

 _“I never use lyrium,”_ he had said the day before. Mages _could_ cast using their own mana, but even the best ones had to take the occasional draught of lyrium if their reserves were flagging… _unless—_

“Oh, Maker,” she swore, covering her face.

“I don’t suppose you would have preferred that I kept them alive?” he said harshly.

Hermione glanced at the Fade spirit, Aspire, who was observing the proceedings silently. “Aspire, is it? A spirit of Purpose? This is the spirit you asked for knowledge of how to perform blood magic, I presume?” she snarled. “What did she ask of _you_ in the bargain?”

Sparks flew from Tom’s hands involuntarily. He stepped forward, breathing heavy breaths, trying to check his anger. “I asked no spirit for such knowledge,” he snapped. “Is that what happens in the southern countries? No mage can learn about blood magic from books, with guidance from experienced enchanters who _also_ learned from books, so they make deals with demons to acquire the knowledge?” He did not wait for an answer. “That is an indictment of your Circles, Hermione. No mage should ever have to turn to a Fade spirit—or a demon—to learn magic. The knowledge should be available in books to those who seek it. It astonishes me that your White Chantry would rather let ambitious mages get possessed than learn _safely_ how to use their natural bodily fluid to fuel magic.” He glared again. “Though perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me at all. What better way to cull the threats?”

“I am not having this discussion with you,” she said hotly. “Even if you _did_ learn it from books and human teachers, doing it at all makes you more vulnerable to the call of demons.”

 _“Being a mage_ makes you more vulnerable to the call of demons,” he replied. “And do you think Aspire is a demon?”

“I do know the difference between a benevolent spirit and a demon,” Hermione acknowledged with a nod to the being. “If you say you learned blood magic from books, I believe you. I’m sure Tevinter has plenty of such books… and… yes, I am glad that you killed the rapist templars, by whatever means… and I suppose it would be better for a mage who wanted to learn blood magic to learn it from a book than by making a deal with a demon and becoming possessed. But this—it’s dangerous, Tom. You are playing with fire.”

“We _literally_ play with fire, you know,” he said with a grin.

Despite herself, she suppressed a chuckle. “That may be, but this is another level. What if she grows weary of this binding? Forcing spirits to exist in this world can make them turn dark—and there you would be, using blood magic, wide open for possession. No offense,” she added to Aspire.

“I take none,” the spirit finally replied. Its voice matched its presentation: cold as steel. “The Fade is more of a challenge for me than other kinds of spirits. It is difficult to find Purpose in a world where nothing is permanent. If one’s purpose is to slay the demons, then replacements will come from the fabric of the Fade as soon as a mortal experiences the emotion that a demon represents. It is an exercise in futility, but Magister Riddle has a great purpose. I am pleased to serve him.”

“There was a Spirit Healer at the Circle,” Hermione said tentatively. “He used the power of a spirit of Compassion to power his spells. I understand….” She gazed uneasily at Tom.

His face softened. “Hermione, I have used blood magic for ten years, since I was sixteen years old. Don’t you think I have been tempted by demons before?”

So he was only six years older than she was. That was a bit of a surprise; Hermione had known that he was obviously young, but she supposed he must have been about thirty. “Well, I suppose… so,” she admitted.

“With experience comes strength. I have no desire to put myself under their control, nor do I wish to see Aspire turn dark. She is a spirit, but she is a real being, not a thing for me to use. It is common in Tevinter for powerful mages to bind spirits on this side of the Veil. There are centuries of knowledge of how to do it. The foolish, greedy mages—those who only do it for status—don’t see the spirits as anything but furniture, and they often do become demons—or the mages themselves become abominations, because the spirits are dissatisfied with what they are offered in this world and want more. The wise mages see spirits for what they are, treat them respectfully, and no harm comes of it. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Hermione considered that. “I still think it’s dangerous… but you say there are centuries of knowledge about how to do this….”

“Indeed. Try to keep an open mind, Hermione. Your Circles have—”

“Please don’t call them ‘my’ Circles,” Hermione burst out suddenly. “I’m not responsible for their choices. I have no power over them. I’m not even part of one anymore!”

Tom smiled. “As you like, then—and that’s a good point, and I approve. _The_ Circles of southern Thedas have destroyed a lot of knowledge—or never developed it in the first place—about how to do certain things with magic. When inexperienced mages attempt to do such things anyway, with little to no training, it often goes wrong, as one would expect. That is why you fear them. It’s sensible to fear spirit bindings and blood magic if you don’t know how to handle them; they _are_ dangerous. But in my country, things are different. We don’t run from these topics. We don’t destroy the knowledge, leaving ambitious, curious mages to try them furtively, alone and ignorant. We face them directly and teach them openly to those who want to learn.”

Hermione was quite certain that she did not want to learn either subject, but it was hard for her to argue with Tom’s reasoning. Once again, the Tevinters must be able to avert disaster in _some_ way if blood magic and spirit summoning were practiced everywhere. The explanation she was given at the Circle, that some things were so dangerous that it was impossible for _anyone_ to do them safely and therefore the knowledge itself—the temptation—must be destroyed, seemed to be proven false by the widespread practice of such magic in Tom’s home country.

She turned to the spirit Aspire. “What do you do for him?” she asked.

The spirit shifted, blue-white light sparkling in beams as it did. “In Kirkwall, I protect and tend the house, especially his business documents. In Minrathous—”

“In Minrathous,” Tom cut in, “she does the same, but my library in my house there is much grander, and she also has the task of keeping it in order for me and finding books and other documents that I need. It’s normally the kind of task a spirit of Wisdom would have, but I maintain my libraries for a _purpose,_ not only knowledge for its own sake, so she can do it.”

The spirit bowed quickly.

Tom offered his arm to Hermione again, clearly wishing the audience to be at an end. Hermione was trying to wrestle with the new ideas that she had just received, to give him the chance that she had promised, and it would be easier to do that without this glowing entity hovering nearby. Gratefully she took his arm and let him escort her out of the library. She was relieved when he closed and locked the door behind them.

* * *

Hermione retreated to her bedroom after that audience. She sat on her bed and considered everything. It was very unsettling to know that a spirit of the Fade was just below her feet, more or less, bound there by blood magic. She had ample familiarity with spirits, but only in their own domain. She really hoped that Tom knew what he was doing and that Aspire did not become a demon.

And then there was his practice of blood magic itself. Hermione had not thought heavily about the specifics of her rescue from Alrik, because it was a traumatic memory even though it had ended with no harm done, but of _course_ that was a blood magic spell, she realized. She should have known it from the moment he did it—but she wasn’t thinking about that at all. She was certainly glad that he had been there, whatever magic he had used—but had that been his only option? Templars were just… humans. Surely any spell that could be used in battle against humans would work on them.

Or did he know something that she didn’t? Did their lyrium usage make them resistant to certain kinds of magic? Was their special armor runed in some way? That would be ironic—and rather hypocritical, Hermione thought—but it wouldn’t surprise her. _And it’s not as if we were ever taught what kinds of magic worked best against templars,_ she thought with a snort. Perhaps the blood hemorrhage spell Tom had used really was the most effective option, if it bypassed their armor and hit their bodies directly.

 _He did not make a deal with a demon to learn it,_ she thought. _It’s taught in Tevinter Circles just as elemental magic and Healing are taught to us. It means tapping into one’s own blood to gain a boost in one’s magic and to use spells that attack others through their blood. It does not mean selling one’s soul to a demon. He has done it for years._ She tried to reassure herself that this was just a difference of culture and background. _“Keep an open mind,”_ he had said to her before showing her Aspire. Although the ideas that she was having to grapple with were unsettling, she was attempting to do that….

Strangely, her thoughts turned toward the Grey Wardens. Emma Hawke had been sure that they used blood magic to master the Taint. It was quite possible that this kind of magic existed all around her….

 _I hope the Wardens let Harry come to Kirkwall soon,_ Hermione thought. _I miss him. I need to see my friend again._

* * *

Hermione made her way downstairs later in the day when she became hungry again. She found Tom in the hallway, walking toward the staircase. Delicious smells perfumed the air. Apparently she had intercepted him en route to tell her about lunch.

He smiled thinly. “If you are ready to eat, food is waiting for us.”

“That’s exactly so,” she said. She followed him into the dining room.

He was quiet throughout this meal, and Hermione was afraid that she had deeply offended him earlier. “Magister,” she said.

He glanced up. “You may call me by my name if you prefer.”

“Is that what _you_ would prefer?”

“Unless it makes you uncomfortable, yes.”

He was still being very curt and abrupt. She decided that she needed to talk to him at once. “All right… _Tom,”_ she said. “I just wanted to say, I spent the morning thinking about our—discussion.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I don’t want to act as if I know more about topics that you’ve studied in depth and practiced for years. I hate it when people are disrespectful of expertise, so that was inappropriate of me. I can’t deny that these subjects make me uneasy, but that’s because I was taught to be uneasy. You were taught otherwise. I’ll try to keep an open mind about them and consider your point of view—the way you were trained—if you’ll give me time, and keep in mind the way _I_ was trained.” She gave him a wry smile.

That clearly mollified him. He relaxed and raised his glass as if in toast. “We have much in common, believe it or not,” he said, “especially how we feel about the disrespect of expertise. It speaks well of you that you can recognize when you’re doing it yourself.”

She eyed him. That was all very well, but he sounded awfully self-satisfied right now….

“It was inevitable that you were going to escape,” he said abruptly. “You are not White Chantry Circle material. Probably it was because you had your parents at least through part of your childhood, and they were mages. Family is important, which is why they try to destroy it for mages… but I digress. I am glad that you’re giving me a chance.” His handsome face broke into a knowing smirk. “I take it, from the way you speak, that you want to stay here for the foreseeable future?”

Her eyes widened. She had not thought about it that way… but if she were honest with herself—

“The other options presented to me are to join the Grey Wardens, which everyone seems to think is a bad idea, or to join Emma Hawke’s band of… mercenaries, or whatever they are. I confess I’d much rather study and practice magic with a master. _Free_ of the Circle,” she added.

His dark eyes glittered when she spoke of being free of the Circle—or when she called him a master; she was not sure which. He raised his glass again. She joined him this time.

* * *

“You are manipulating the Fade with every spell you cast,” he said, his gaze fixed upon her as she cast without her staff. Tom had shown her a warded room in the stone basement where they could practice magic, and that was what they were doing. “Your staff is a material object to focus that magic, but _you_ have the power in your own soul and body.”

Hermione instantly thought of blood magic, but banished that idea. He wasn’t teaching her that. He was teaching her how to cast spells with nothing but her two hands that were more powerful and focused than she had ever attempted to do.

His voice became commanding and urgent. “Use it! You don’t require a staff for magic. It is a tool, nothing more. The Circle probably didn’t teach you much about casting with your hands because that would give you power. If they can render you helpless by taking away your staff and your lyrium, they control you. You must learn to do without one—and remember, there is _no_ lyrium in this house!” He gestured at a marble bust on the other side of the room. “Blast it to pieces. I know you can.”

Hermione burned with embarrassment. So far, she had only been able to cast diffuse glows of magic power that extended a few feet in front of her. It likely would have been sufficient to stun a foe in a melee fight, but it did not even approach the marble bust.

“I feel bad about destroying something of yours,” she said hesitantly, not entirely to excuse herself—though that was absolutely a part of it—but to explain. Magic _did_ require will.

“It’s a bust of my murderous uncle,” Tom said impatiently. “He is responsible for the deaths of my parents. I _want_ to see you destroy it!”

Hermione blinked, remembering Varric Tethras’s story about him. That changed things. She took a deep breath and focused her magic. In previous attempts, she had waved her hands, palms open—but for this one, somehow, instinctively she decided to do something else. When her focus seemed to be at its peak, she clenched her fists.

A pair of matching bluish-purple blasts of cold magic emanated from from her hands. They struck the ugly bust, shattering it into several pieces, which clattered to the stone floor and broke apart further, encased in frost.

Tom smirked broadly, but he seemed genuinely pleased. “Well done,” he said.

She took a deep breath, feeling tired. She still had mana left, but this kind of casting was more draining than using a staff. Perhaps it was because she was not used to it and had not learned how to do it efficiently.

Tom seemed to read her mind. “In time, this will be easier for you, and using a staff will deplete more of your magical power—unless, of course, you change your mind and decide to learn the other type of magic after all.”

She gazed wryly at him. “I’ll pass on that for now.”

“As you wish,” he said, noting her last two words, but unsure if she meant them or if it was part of the sarcasm. “Let us take a break from this.”

* * *

They went back upstairs and into the sitting room where they had first talked the day before. Tom went to one of his cabinets and came out with a bottle of red wine. “This is a vintage from my homeland,” he said, popping the cork. “If you ask me, I think it’s better than Antivan wine.”

Hermione grinned at him. “You would. I actually have had Antivan red before, back in the days before Meredith banned it from the holiday dinners for the mages. Tevinter red would have to be _very_ good indeed to surpass it.”

“Challenge accepted,” he remarked, pouring her a glass.

Hermione picked up the glass and took a sip. It _was_ good—that she had to admit. It was much less fruity than Antivan red, with more suggestions of oak and vanilla and the like. However….

She shook her head. “It _is_ good, but I still like Antivan better.”

Tom raised his eyebrows and sipped his own wine. “When was the last time you _had_ wine?”

“Three years ago,” she admitted.

“Then you like the _memory_ of it, most likely,” he said arrogantly, taking another sip. “This is obviously superior.” He winked at her.

“I’m sure that good memories do age well,” she quipped, “but you are taking the part of your country because it is your country. You’re also half Marcher, you know. You would probably say that Kirkwall ale is the best in Thedas too.”

“I am half _Kirkwaller,”_ he corrected gently, “but I would never say that. The cities of the Free Marches make the _worst_ beer in Thedas. Even Fereldan ale is better than this pisswater.”

Hermione laughed. “There was a Fereldan in the Circle, a Blight refugee. She always praised her country’s ale.”

“I have actually never been there,” he admitted. His eyes gleamed. “I would like to, for the purposes of magical research, now that the Blight is over. There were some fascinating tales out of the Fereldan city of Amaranthine about Grey Warden shenanigans with a talking darkspawn mage….”

“I’ll have to ask Harry, my friend, about that,” Hermione said, shuddering.

Tom took another sip of his wine. Hermione followed suit. The taste of this was growing on her after all, now that she thought about it….

“Has your friend ever met the Hero of Ferelden or the Warden-Commander of that country? If you know?” he asked.

“I really can’t say,” Hermione said. “It’s been a while since I heard from him. Why?”

“Just… curious. Even though Warden-Commander Loghain slew the Archdemon, the Hero of Ferelden did the rest of the work. He is an alienage elf, and not even a mage, which strikes me as odd indeed… but perhaps he was a diamond in the rough.” He finished his glass. “I ordered his memoir from the Kirkwall bookseller. It seems that they don’t want to stock it.”

“So you are keeping an open mind too,” she said quietly. “Well… I knew many elven mages at the Circle. The First Enchanter of Kirkwall is an elf.”

“I suppose there are always a few exceptional individuals in any category,” Tom said quickly. He poured himself another glass of wine. “So. I notice that you are drinking this faster. You like nice things from Tevinter after all?” he said, giving her a lopsided smirk.

Hermione flushed faintly. Unless she was mistaken, he was outright flirting, and not particularly subtly. “I _said_ I liked it,” she reminded him. “It is good.”

“It is good, and Marcher ale is the worst…. Have you ever had Orlesian wine?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll have to procure a bottle of that somehow. I hate spending perfectly good gold on such swill, but you must try it once to know what the Void’s own vintage tastes like.”

Hermione stifled a squeal of laughter. “Do! I’m curious now, in a terrible way.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he said, smiling teasingly.

He raised his glass. Tentatively, nervously, she raised hers, clinking them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a story, I can do things that the game doesn’t allow one to do. In this AU, Loghain slew the Archdemon and nobody died because Tabris did Morrigan’s ritual. Alistair and Anora rule the kingdom. And after the Blight ended, Loghain became Warden-Commander instead of being sent to Orlais. If he survives, it’s stupid for his experience as a general to be wasted.
> 
> With Tom’s reveals about the blood magic spell to kill the rapist templars and his arrangement with Aspire, Hermione is already having long-held views challenged (or she is already becoming corrupted, if you see it that way!). As far as Tom’s views are concerned, please keep this in mind, because there are much bigger issues to come, some of which actually have real-world relevance: His views don’t necessarily reflect my own views about controversial in-game issues. Regarding the fantasy topics of this chapter, I don’t agree with Tom about dealing with spirits but do agree with him about blood magic, at least if learned the way he learned it.


	4. Speculation and Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of past Tom/Bellatrix in this chapter. My other Toms never had an intimate relationship with anyone before Hermione, but I can’t quite believe that of this one. He’s too urbane, too old (my other Toms meet Hermione when they’re both teens), and is not fixated on the transcendence of “ordinary flesh.” (His interest in immortality through magic is similar but different, as the chapter will depict.) This past relationship is actually very relevant to the development of Tom/Hermione here.

Over the week, Hermione rapidly settled into her new life outside the Circle. It remained unsettling to her to be in the same house as a Fade spirit bound with blood magic, not to mention a Tevinter magister who practiced it—that was the very type of person that the White Chantry preached was responsible for evil in the world—but the fact remained that Tom, the person, did not act at all like the malevolent personages of legend.

 _No slaves,_ Hermione thought, as she made her way around the mansion. The spirit Aspire did not count in her reckoning, because it was clearly an instance of a spirit who had wanted to experience life in the physical world.

 _No blood sacrifice of innocents,_ she thought. _That_ was what the Magisters Sidereal had done, according to the story: They had sacrificed hundreds of slaves to pull off their unprecedented magical act of entering the Black City physically. Tom used blood magic, but not in this way. He used his own blood to fuel his spells. _Except when he is slaying enemies,_ she corrected herself in thought, remembering Ser Alrik and the rapist templars. _He can also use the blood of enemies to fuel his magic. But they aren’t innocents._ And, equally importantly to Hermione, he was not pushing this form of magic on her. She was learning from him, but he was not forcing her to undergo instruction in something that she did not want to do.

And he was charming and gentlemanly—even flirtatious. Hermione was not sure what to think of that. It flattered her to receive the attentions of someone she found handsome and— _might as well admit it,_ she thought—liked, but it was intimidating at the same time. At the Circle, it had been possible for the mages to have brief flings with each other—at least, before Knight-Commander Meredith’s crackdown that had removed so many innocent pleasures from their lives. However, Hermione had never availed herself of such opportunities. There had been a time, in her mid-teen years, when she had admired Harry, but that had come to nothing. Harry, she had been forced to accept, had only ever seen her as a dear friend, and now he was a Grey Warden and in a relationship with Emma Hawke—who, Hermione had to acknowledge, was much more his type, with her boldness and interest in taking action as a sort of mercenary-vigilante. There had been no one else at the Circle with whom Hermione had wanted to flirt—or more—and even if there had been, having an adolescent relationship with a fellow Circle apprentice wouldn’t have prepared her for the attentions of a magister of the Imperium.

 _What does he mean by it?_ Hermione often wondered during those first few days. She remembered what Varric Tethras had said about Tom’s situation in Tevinter. Because his father had not been a mage, he was considered unmarriageable by most of the “altus” families, even though his mother had been of that status herself. _If no one at home has ever wanted him, could he possibly have serious intentions for his flirting with me?_ she wondered. _Could he eventually want to have a relationship with me openly?_ She dared not think of marriage; that was absurdly presumptuous for a man that she’d met barely a week ago, and a magister of Tevinter to boot—but then, as a mage, she had not particularly expected to have that option in life anyway after she went to the Circle. Just being with him at all would… but no, she would not finish that thought; it was too embarrassing. _Or is he doing it because he wants to get me in bed, with no particular interest beyond that? I am not interested in that. If he likes me for who I am, that’s different, but I just don’t know enough about his own views of love and romance to say._

She did not know, and she was too embarrassed about the topic to ask. A third possibility intruded into her thoughts, the possibility that Tom was flirtatious because it was a part of his personality, and he meant nothing whatever by it, not even simple lust. She could not rule that out either. He was charming and interesting… but Hermione had a sense that there was something of a mask, figuratively speaking, over his face. She did not know what he might be concealing, or even if he were concealing it on purpose, but she had the strong impression that there was more to Magister Thomas Riddle that she did not know.

 _I want to know,_ she realized. _I want to know much, much more about him. He is interesting to me and I want to know everything about him because—_ She stopped the pacing that she had been doing and gazed at the mirror that hung on the wall before her. It was a little embarrassing to look at her own reflection after she’d just had a realization of this sort.

But this realization did not bring her any closer to being able to ask him anything about himself and the nature of his attentions to her.

Hermione sighed and decided that she needed a drink. She also needed to get away from the mansion for a brief time. The best opportunity to do that was to visit her new friends at the Hanged Man in Lowtown.

She had learned quickly how to cast powerful elemental spells with only her hands. They were not as intense as the ones she could cast with her staff, but they were quite good enough to defend herself without announcing herself as an apostate mage with a staff on her back.

She left a note for Tom and headed out the door. Unless something unusual was going on, she expected to meet at least one of Hawke’s friends—or the woman herself—in the pub. It was apparently rare that both Varric and Isabela accompanied her on one of her jobs. Hermione suspected that there were other friends of Hawke’s that she had not yet met, but the time would come for that, she reasoned.

* * *

“Boiling in oil,” muttered a voice that Hermione recognized as she entered the pub.

“Too prosaic. I think… trapped in a cave with hungry bears would be better.” Hermione recognized that voice too: the voice of Varric Tethras himself.

“That lets him off too easy,” objected Varric’s companion. As Hermione followed the sounds of the voices, she realized that it was the surly mage, Anders.

“What’s going on?” she inquired as she took her seat, holding a flagon of ale. She had learned, through trial and error, which brews to specifically avoid in this place.

“We’re discussing what to do to my bastard of a brother, Bartrand,” Varric explained, as if there were nothing whatsoever unusual about concocting painful punishments for a close relative.

She raised her eyebrows. “What did he _do?”_

“Abandoned me, Hawke, her sister Bethany, and… another friend of ours… in the Deep Roads,” the dwarf explained. “Tried to trap us in a cave to die. Dirtbag.”

“This is your _brother?”_ Hermione was flabbergasted. If she had had the chance to stay with her family, she was certain that she never would have treated them in such a way….

“Sad but true.”

She raised her eyebrows at Anders. “But you weren’t there? Are you angry at him for something too?”

The mage scowled. “He tried to kill my friends. That’s enough for me to want to think of… forms of vengeance against him.” His eyes gleamed strangely as he said that, but only for a moment. Hermione was not entirely sure she had seen it right. Perhaps it was the light….

She gave him a strange look. “All… right then.” She turned to Varric. “Is it just the two of you today? Not that that’s a problem!” she exclaimed at once to reassure him.

He chuckled. “I’m afraid so, Bookworm. In here, at least.”

“Bookworm?”

“Varric nicknames everyone,” Anders said. “He thinks it’s funny.”

“Oh, right, you’re ‘Blondie,’” she said. She turned to Varric, smiling. “Well. I _am_ a voracious reader, so this meets with my approval.”

“I thought it might,” he replied, smiling back. “And yes, it’s just us in here today. Hawke and the Rivaini”—Hermione knew this by now to be the pirate Isabela—“are trying to clear out a mine that she has a stake in. Apparently it’s overrun with giant spiders, or the undead, or… something. Maybe nothing, at least of consequence. The foreman and the Orlesian co-owner are pretty cowardly, if you ask me. The elves are at the mine with them.”

“Ah, I knew there were more of you,” she said. “I can’t wait to meet these elves.”

“Yes, you can,” Anders cut in. “You can wait a very, very long time indeed to meet either of them.”

She eyed him evenly. “You don’t like them. You obviously know them, so you certainly have a right to form an opinion of them, but I’ll form my own opinion when I do meet them.”

He shrugged. “One of them is the most vitriolic magic-hater in the city after Meredith.”

“That’s unfair, Blondie,” objected Varric. “He doesn’t hate Bethany.”

“That’s true,” Anders conceded, “but she’s the only exception, so far. The other elf is a blood mage who deals with demons. I doubt either of them is your type… though I could be wrong,” he added as something occurred to him. “Perhaps the magister is one too. Maybe you and Merrill would get on great.”

Hermione felt as if he had slapped her. “What in the Void is your problem?” she exclaimed. “I’ve never done anything to you!”

He glowered. “I apologize. I… don’t like blood magic, or demons.”

Hermione considered. She did not particularly want to defend the use of blood magic, but she did not like being treated this way, and she felt strangely compelled to defend Tom. “He _does_ know blood magic,” she said in a low voice. “It’s how he killed the templars who were going to… hurt me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He is a magister. And I am glad they are dead, even if he could have used another spell to do it.”

“He didn’t make a deal with a demon to learn this magic,” she said. “It’s taught out of books in Tevinter.” Her conscience tugged at her, and she couldn’t help but add, “He _does_ have a Fade spirit—a spirit of Purpose—serving him, but it’s not a _demon._ It makes me uneasy, I won’t lie, but—”

Anders’ expression changed. “Oh, no, I completely understand the difference between demons and good spirits,” he said very quickly. “This is… an important subject to me.” He paused, contemplating his drink. “Merrill is not a bad person. She’s just naïve, and her magical doings are going to bite her someday if she doesn’t stop. And I don’t understand why a magister would need to resort to blood magic just to kill a few templars. _I_ could have taken them all without it, I’m sure, and I really wish I _had_ been there….”

Hermione eyed the mage as something suddenly occurred to her. _He’s jealous,_ she realized. _He is jealous of Tom. That’s why he was hostile to me. He does genuinely disapprove of blood magic, but he’s hostile because he is jealous of Tom. Over me._ The idea was astounding to her, and a little embarrassing, if she were honest with herself. To the best of her knowledge, she had never had anyone jealous of anyone else because of her….

She had already made her choice, though, even before she had had any inkling that she’d _had_ a choice. Tom had been kind and charming to her; he had offered her houseroom—in a completely gentlemanly way, with no inappropriate strings attached—and offered to teach her what he knew about advanced magic from the Tevinter Circle. If Tom truly was interested in her—and at this particular moment, Hermione would have staked her life on that—then he was expressing that interest in a mature, civilized, assertive way that was very appealing to her.

“Well,” she said as diplomatically as she could manage, “what’s important is that _someone_ was there. They’re dead now and will never hurt another mage. As for these elven friends of yours,” she continued, turning back to Varric, as it was very plain that they were not Anders’ friends, “I can’t wait to meet them. Is there anyone else who sometimes joins Emma?”

“Two others on occasion,” he said. “They have frequent, _official_ duties, though.” He chuckled as he took another sip of his drink. “I do too, technically speaking… though I always put them off. I hate the Merchant’s Guild. Anyhow, Bookworm, most of the time the friends who accompany our Hawke on her jobs are the vagrants, tagalongs, and shady characters. Present company _not_ excepted, Blondie.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Anders did not take offense at that. She laughed. “If I ever decide to join her, I should fit right in! Another escaped apostate for her company!”

The dwarf joined her toast.

“I was wondering,” she said, her voice returning to normal after that, “if you knew anything about the Grey Wardens’ plans. I miss my friend and I’d like to let him know that I escaped. I’d like to _meet_ him again!” she exclaimed. “Do you know when they are coming to town again?”

Across the table, Anders seemed to turn to ice. Hermione recalled that he seemed to be strongly against the Grey Wardens for some reason. _Their use of blood magic, most likely,_ she thought.

Varric exchanged a brief look with Anders. “Right now, I think they are on a… hunt.”

“For darkspawn? I didn’t realize there were many in this area. It wasn’t Blighted.”

“A Blight activates darkspawn across Thedas, drawing them to the Archdemon,” Anders said tightly. “Those who went to the Deep Roads encountered them.”

“That we did,” Varric agreed. “Don’t worry. When your friend is in town, you’ll be the first to know—after the rest of us, of course.”

“That’s not even _close_ to first,” Hermione said, smiling.

“What can I say? I never claimed to be accurate with words.”

* * *

Although Hermione had not learned anything particularly useful from her meeting with these two of Hawke’s friends, she was glad of the excursion. It was a welcome change, and an opportunity to reflect on her present unresolved situation with Tom without having the very walls of his house pressing down on her as she did. As she returned, she felt emboldened to have a serious talk with him about his intentions to her. _It isn’t fair for him to flirt with me and make what seem to be overtures if I don’t know what he means by it,_ she resolved. _I have the right to know that if I’m actually going to live here._

She even felt bold enough to go to the Fade spirit to inquire. Aspire hovered just above the ground, her—its?—magic-created Archon robes flowing from it in waves of light, as she approached. The spirit regarded her with an expressionless face.

“Is the magister at home?” she asked. Somehow it seemed fitting to ask this question in a very formal way.

“He is in his study,” Aspire replied. “He has a great deal of correspondence, Lady Granger.”

“Oh… I’m not ‘Lady Granger,’” she said abashedly.

The ghost of a smile— _how appropriate, that,_ Hermione thought as the turn of phrase entered her thoughts—appeared on Aspire’s face for the first time. “The magister says that you are by virtue of your mother’s noble blood and your magical ability,” she replied. “He is finishing his correspondence, but he said that if you returned before he was finished, you could come in if you liked.”

Hermione wavered for a moment before deciding to accept that invitation. Tom had clearly wanted Aspire to relay the message that he desired her company….

“Thank you,” she said, setting off to his study.

* * *

Tom was sitting at a very fine desk of expensive northern tropical wood, a sheet of parchment in front of him on which he was writing, several additional sheets—full of writing—pushed to the side. He noticed Hermione as soon as she entered the room and gestured for her to approach. She walked toward the side of his desk. As she drew near, he made no attempt to cover the parchment on which he was writing. However, his hand was dark and cramped, whereas the writing on the letter he had put aside—answering, presumably—was larger.

Hermione did not look deliberately, but it was hard to avoid catching a glimpse.

_The mission was ultimately successful. Unfortunately, the expense of the trip was greater than expected due to an attack by the Tal-Vashoth oxmen. It cost us several health salves to repair the damage we took. I regret asking for yet more coin, and I will pay it off with interest. You know I always have._

_Your comrade in Resolution,_

_Felis Subterrenus_

 

“Mage Underground business,” Tom said, gathering the sheaf.

“Ah,” she said. “I knew you were part of it.”

He smiled. “I have to keep it quiet. It could cause a diplomatic incident if it became known that an Imperial magister was helping Circle mages of the White Chantry escape.”

“I’m the last person who would tell anyone,” she promised. “‘Felis Subterrenus,’ really? ‘Underground Cat’? What kind of spy name is that?” It was hard for Hermione to avoid laughing.

“The translation between Arcanum and the King’s Tongue isn’t exact. Underground cat, basement cat… or, as I rather suspect, Darktown Cat. I’ve never met the fellow in the flesh and don’t know his real name, nor does he know mine—obviously, given what I just told you—but I think he must be based there.”

“That _is_ where the Circle mages escape to,” she agreed. “So. What’s _your_ spy name?”

For the very first time since she had met him, Tom looked embarrassed. “That’s an unfair question.”

“It can’t be any sillier than ‘Darktown Cat.’”

Tom hesitated for a moment. “What it _means_ certainly isn’t…. All right. My code name is ‘Voldemort.’”

Hermione suppressed a snicker, but only for half a second. She covered her mouth, trying to hold it in, but she could not. A guffaw burst from her. “That’s _Orlesian!”_ she exclaimed. “I never would have thought it of you!”

Tom looked defensive. “An Orlesian spy name deflects from the truth—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Hermione said, still laughing. “Flight from death? Is there any particular significance to that?”

For a moment he seemed resistant to answering. “Tevinter is constantly at war with the Qunari,” he finally said. “Many good mages have fallen to those horned savages. Magical protection and warding is a fast-moving field of study in Minrathous especially.”

“One you research?”

He nodded. “The theory of a personal magical shield, fueled by one’s blood… the paradox—for an attacker—would be that the shield cannot be pierced, let alone demolished, without spilling the mage’s blood, but of course, if the shield spell is active—”

“Then the attacker couldn’t wound the mage,” Hermione said. “Interesting.”

“It’s only a theory, though. No one has succeeded in doing it. I have my own ideas about why that is the case….” He trailed off.

Hermione sat down in a chair near his. “This is very interesting. I love talking about magical theory! What do you think? What do you suspect is the reason why no one has been able to do this?”

“You really want to know?”

For a moment Hermione was afraid of what she would hear. However, her curiosity won out. She nodded.

“Such spells _have_ been tried in Tevinter, but they’re never actually impenetrable. My suspicion is that they cannot be. According to magical healers, who have studied the body, some of our blood is always dying and being replaced. What I suspect is the answer….” He trailed off uneasily.

“My parents were healers,” she urged. “This is interesting to me. You can’t stop there.”

He took a deep breath. “All right, if you insist. I suspect the answer will be to fuel the shield spell with the blood of a sacrifice, magically preserved in stasis.”

Hermione’s face fell. “A… sacrifice? A _life?”_

“Possibly.”

“So… killing someone to shield yourself from death? _That’s_ what you study?” she accused.

“It’s purely academic! I haven’t tested the theory,” he said at once, defensively. “It’s just a speculation, and it could be that it wouldn’t require a life’s worth of blood to do it. I suspect it does—it would make sense that a shield offering impenetrable, inviolable defense of a life would _require_ a life—but I don’t _know._ Hermione,” he said urgently, as her face twisted, “haven’t you thought about magical topics that you didn’t intend to actually do?”

She swallowed, trying to put aside her distaste. “Yes,” she admitted grudgingly. “I suppose I have. This is awfully dark and evil, though. It… reminds me of why I don’t want to use blood magic.” She felt heat rush up her cheeks as she remembered how she defended Tom’s use of blood magic to Anders at the Hanged Man.

“Well, nobody has to commit sacrificial murder to perform blood magic,” Tom said. “There are many uses of it that have nothing to do with that.”

“Like killing would-be rapists,” she offered weakly, trying to put the wretched idea of sacrificial murder out of her mind.

“Exactly,” he agreed.

She leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. _Things are different in Tevinter,_ she thought, _and I must always keep that in mind. The mages there—the magisters especially, I’d assume—study all kinds of topics that we are not even allowed to read about. But even here in the Circles of the southern countries, there are things we can read about but are not allowed to do. Reading about something—theorizing about something—is not an act of evil._

“Are you all right?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She turned to face him and nodded. “I’m fine. I’m just… adjusting my ideas.”

“I’m opening your mind?” he said, teasing in his voice.

That reminded her of her original intention. “Yes,” she admitted frankly. “And on the subject of being open… I would like to have a frank discussion with you about something.”

He sat up straight. “Yes?”

She took a deep breath. “I have appreciated your hospitality and… your knowledge of magic that you’ve freely shared with me. I enjoy your company. But I must know what you mean by flirting and teasing me, making what appear to me to be overtures….” She trailed off as his face changed. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” she said unhappily.

He shook his head. “Not at all. I didn’t realize….”

“You didn’t know it was coming across that way to me?”

He grimaced. “Oh, it was absolutely my intention for it to come across that way. I didn’t realize it was… unwelcome. You always seemed to enjoy it. I took that as encouragement.”

“That’s just it,” she said. “It’s flattering, and I’ve never been the object of anyone’s flirtatious attentions before, but I don’t know if I can continue to enjoy it without knowing what it means. What….” She hesitated, then took the great plunge. “What are your ultimate intentions? I must say right now, _Magister,_ that if your only intention is to—get me in your bed—then it would be better if I took my leave at once.” Her voice was firm and rather chilly, especially with her decision to use his imperial title instead of his name, but that was to keep the embarrassment at what she was saying from becoming too obvious.

Tom considered her words. “Hermione—you don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“I will first set your mind at ease on that point: I am not the sort of man to engage in meaningless physical dalliances. I find the idea inherently debasing, and all the more so with respect to an intelligent, powerful, strong person such as you. There are magisters… and the children of magisters… who engage in such debauchery, in Minrathous. I’ve never been among them.”

Hermione sensed that there was something important that he had not told her yet. “Did someone… hurt you?”

His nostrils flared in surprise. “You’re perceptive.”

Hermione’s quick mind had latched onto a memory. “Varric Tethras told me what he knew of your background. He said that because your father was not a mage, nobody in the families of the Magisterium would….” She trailed off, suddenly alarmed at the way that his face was tensing.

“Ah yes, the dwarf who fancies himself a novelist,” Tom said darkly. “He seems to know a bit too much about everyone in this town, especially personal matters that are none of his Maker-damned business. I’d love to know who his contact in the Magisterium is… but I digress. What he said— _this time—_ is true, Hermione, and I learned it the hard way five years ago.”

She waited for him to collect himself. “For what it’s worth, he didn’t tell me anything in detail. He just said that the reason you were single was that they were snobbish toward you.”

“Thank the Maker for small favors,” he said bitterly. “There is an altus family, Nigellus—‘Black’ in the King’s Tongue, more or less—and they are very elite indeed. Foolishly, I had the idea that I could offer something to the eldest daughter of a cadet branch of the family. Bellatrix. She is named for a star that’s very important in Tevinter…. Anyway, I imagined that she cared about me. I convinced myself that an altus daughter would not sleep with a man unless she….” He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Hermione had never had a partner, but she still felt for him—and she believed she understood the situation. “She was your first, wasn’t she?”

He nodded. “And last. So far. You must understand, I meant to wed her, and I thought that she wouldn’t possibly do that unless she meant it as well. I knew that her family disapproved of our marrying, because of what my father was, but I urged her to defy them. I would have much to offer her, I told her—my uncle might hold the family seat in the Magisterium, but he had no children, and whether he liked it or not, my mother _was_ his heir—and I was after her. I was an Enchanter of the Circle of Minrathous, which is a great distinction in Tevinter. I knew even then that I would be a magister someday, and I assumed that would be enough to convince Bellatrix to defy her family.”

“It wasn’t,” Hermione murmured.

He shook his head. “She was using me. She shared their views entirely and was using me for her own pleasure. I realized that when she refused me and went along with their plans for her instead. To her, I was good enough for a fling, but not for marriage or children. She meant to keep me as a sort of… the Antivans have a word for it….”

Hermione was disgusted. “She got what she deserved, from the sounds of it. I’m glad that you broke up with her, and I’m sorry that she did that to you.”

“I think that what she _deserved_ is… well,” he recollected himself, “there is no point in pursuing that. The point is, that wretched dwarf was right. I cannot make my way in the Magisterium through my bloodline, even though it’s just as pure on my mother’s side as any of the most ancient families, so I must make my way through my magical research… and political interests.”

Hermione rose from her chair and moved close to him. “I wouldn’t do that to you. If this means that you want to take things slowly, I understand—I have _no_ experience, and I have to confess, there are things about you that are rather intimidating. To my eyes, you’re not a ‘half-blood’ or whatever they call it in Tevinter. You’re a magister of the Imperium, a very powerful mage, and you engage in magical studies that… make me uneasy. But… I’m interested in you, Tom. I won’t lie about _that_ either.”

He finally smiled. “I surmised as much. I _am_ interested in you, Hermione… and we need not take it that slowly unless that’s what you want.” He gazed at her with identifiable hunger in his eyes. “You remind me of her in some ways—the good ways,” he clarified at once. “Powerful. Forthright. And, I rather suspect, quite loyal.”

“I hope I’m more loyal than she was.”

“Well, I _thought_ she was loyal,” Tom said, still smiling. “But yes. I question if ‘taking it slowly’ is the best decision, since we’ve rather bared our hearts right now, have we not? It’s acknowledged, so shouldn’t we end some of the tensions?”

“Wait, wait,” Hermione said at once, holding up a hand. “I just met you a week ago. I’m still becoming comfortable with life outside the Circle and with some of the ideas that you’ve introduced. I’m not ready to….” She trailed off in embarrassment.

He raised his eyebrows. “Clearly not, since you’re also uncomfortable just saying the words. What about… milder forms of affection?”

Hermione winced. “It’s rather embarrassing, really… but I….”

He suddenly understood, and Hermione could see the instant that it hit him just how much the mages of the Kirkwall Circle had been tyrannized by the Knight-Commander. “I’m sure that that lyrium-slurping old bat would send mages to the Tranquility room just for making eyes at each other,” he said savagely. “If your friend Hawke doesn’t fell her someday, I will do it myself, I swear. Put the Circle behind you, Hermione. Don’t let her control you any longer.”

Hermione gazed at him. He was furious, his face set in a determined expression, his elegant robes falling from his shoulders in shimmering waves. Bluish-white tendrils of magic, barely visible, floated from his hands. Sudden desire flooded her body at once.

She stepped closer and reached for his shoulders. He moved instinctively, meeting her halfway, one strong arm enclosing her around her back while he cupped her cheek with his other hand. She thought for a fraction of a second that she would have to get on tiptoe to reach him, but he bent his head just enough that she fit into his arms perfectly. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers, forcing her mouth open with his tongue—

Hermione hissed, almost falling to the floor from surprise. The mages she had known in the Circle who had dared to sneak kisses in the hallways had not ever described _anything_ like this. Indeed, it was considered rather shocking and scandalous to kiss “Orlesian-style”—and Hermione was quite certain that Tom was going well beyond that, as he nipped at her lips with his perfect white teeth. It was a little painful, but also incomparably intimate, and she reacted almost involuntarily by threading her hands into his jet-black hair, fisting handfuls of it, making him moan. That moan sent a thrill to her very core. _I want him to do that,_ she thought suddenly, though she had never thought such a thing before and had no idea where it had come from. It must have been a deep, instinctual part of her. _I want to make him do that…._

He pulled away, releasing her lower lip, leaving it swollen and tender as he gazed at her hungrily, a smirk adorning his face. He did not loosen his embrace.

“I… think I could get used to this,” she remarked, feeling bold as she stroked his cheek with one hand.

He pulled her close again, pressing his mouth to hers once again, plundering her mouth—but only for a few seconds this time. He pulled back roughly, gazing at her. “Good. You will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the Basement Cat reference, but given several factors, it was irresistible—and also, I’m trying to keep this story as lighthearted as possible (which admittedly is not very), so pretty please let me have my stupid borderline-fourth-wall-breaking jokes. I know it’s not game canon that the person in question was involved with the Resolutionists (and yes, that’s who the letter is for, _not_ the Mage Underground), but it is absolutely in character and is canon in this story. That will have major implications later.
> 
> Next chapter: Tom and Hermione’s relationship will develop at a fairly rapid pace (this story _is_ using fairy tale tropes, after all), and the elven game companions finally make their appearance! And if you’re feeling uneasy about Fenris-Danarius-Tom, well, I’m not going to say a word about that. You’ll find out soon enough what the deal is.


	5. History Is Part of Us

_Harry,_

_You were always the best friend I ever had, and unless your girlfriend has already told you, I had better thank you for your excellent advice regarding the Circle. It became much worse since you left, and Meredith finally became so distrustful of mages that she denied the existence of templars who used the Rite of Tranquility to commit rape._

_Yes, I overheard this plot, and I told her, believing—still—that the answer was to inform the authorities. She called me a liar to my face and suggested that a demon had made me say it. That was the catalyst for my leaving._

_And no, the templars responsible are never going to actually commit such an atrocious, monstrous crime. What I’ve avoided saying thus far, but that I’m sure you suspect, is true—they meant to do it to me—and the circumstances of their deaths are probably exactly what you might guess, except that I myself did not, alas, strike the blows. I was aided by a powerful mage who I’ve since confirmed is active in the Mage Underground—a magister of the Tevinter Imperium, if you’ll believe me, Harry (actually, believe me or not; the next time you are in Kirkwall, I’ll prove what I say!). His name is Thomas Riddle and he’s only six years older than we are._

_I’m implying exactly what you think I am, Harry. We like each other and are mutually attracted. I appreciate your suggestion that I join the Grey Wardens, because it was a goal and a future to dream of while I was planning my escape, but everyone agrees that it is not a great idea for me for numerous reasons, and I have a different plan now. I’m so happy. There are some things I’ve had to get used to, which I’ll tell you in detail when you are in Kirkwall, but although there are some... differences... in the cultural tolerance of certain kinds of magic between him and me, he doesn’t do anything that we were trained to consider “wrong” for actually wrong purposes. I am uncomfortable with the thought of doing these things myself, but I do wonder now if our training really was restricted and benighted to our detriment and the benefit of those who fear us. I think intent matters too._

_Emma Hawke is rapidly becoming a friend of mine, as well as at least one of her friends, Varric. I really cannot wait for all of us to meet at the Hanged Man—or at someone’s table—once you are in the city again, Harry._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

 

She sealed the letter with a dab of Tom’s wax and his family seal, a coiled serpent. It would not be difficult for the messenger to find the Grey Wardens.

Tom had stood to the side, watching with a patient smile on his face as she wrote, but not standing close enough to see what she was writing. She had not cared if he _had_ seen; she had not meant to write anything of which she would be ashamed, but the gesture of respect for her privacy touched her nonetheless. It was so different from the rare and surreptitious correspondence she’d had with Harry after he left, letters written in code….

“I think we should have a dinner with Emma Hawke and… some… of her friends,” Hermione suggested to Tom once she had sent her letter by a courier. _Just some. I do not want Anders there if he cannot handle jealousy any better than to be petty and spiteful about my choice when he never even expressed his interest like a grown man in the first place… plus, he makes those oddly creepy comments sometimes. And if one of Emma’s elven friends hates magic, perhaps not him either, though I shall reserve my own judgment until I’ve met him… but some of them. Varric, certainly. Tom needs to see that he’s not bad at all._

She was interested, if a bit uneasy, about meeting the other elf, whom they had called Merrill. A Dalish mage would know magic that was not taught in the Circles and probably not known in the Imperium either. The Dalish rarely entered the borders of Tevinter.

 _It is unfortunate if she did talk to a demon once,_ Hermione thought, _but as long as she did not let it possess her, it’s just a mistake with no lasting harm done. We all make them._

She prided herself on her new open-mindedness, as she reflected on what she was thinking. _Out of the Circle, and within a couple of weeks, I’m already seeing the wide world, in a sense,_ she thought proudly.

Tom considered her request. “Why not? As long as it’s not held at that pub, I think it’s a fine idea.”

She beamed.

* * *

Tom might not want to hold a dinner at the Hanged Man, which Hermione found perfectly understandable, but she herself had no objection to visiting the place. Most of Emma’s friends seemed to prefer to congregate there rather than at her house in Hightown. Perhaps they did not want to inconvenience Emma’s mother, whom Hermione soon learned lived with her, but whatever the reason, it certainly made for raucous nights.

One night, Emma herself appeared at the door to Tom’s mansion, smiling crookedly. “Guess what?” she said to Hermione when she appeared with Tom at the door.

Hermione raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Fenris and Merrill are here!” she exclaimed. “They are here, and they are available tonight to have a round at the pub! Want to come?” She glanced up at Tom fearlessly. “You’re welcome too, Magister, though if you come, I should warn you about Fenris….”

Tom shook his head. “If any of your friends need ‘warnings,’ Mistress Hawke, I’d best stay at home.”

“I would be interested in meeting them,” Hermione said.

“Well, they’re on their way! Merrill is, anyway. We are going to meet Fenris en route. You look great already, but if you need a few minutes….”

“I don’t think I need to dress up for the Hanged Man,” Hermione laughed as she hugged Tom goodbye.

“No staff?” Hawke questioned.

“I… have learned a lot over the past couple of weeks about how to cast powerful spells without a staff,” she said proudly.

Hawke nodded. “An excellent plan.” As Tom closed the door behind him and the two women walked down the front steps, Hermione turned to her.

“What’s the matter with this Fenris? Why should Tom have been warned about him? And since I’m… with… Tom, shouldn’t I be warned too?”

“You already have been by Varric, I understand. He doesn’t like magic.”

“Anders, actually,” said Hermione. “He called Fenris the biggest magic-hater in the city after Meredith Stannard herself.” She scowled. “And then he said that I should like Merrill just fine because Tom probably… does similar things to what she does.”

“Ah,” Emma said, her face closing down. “I’ve had… a talk with him about his behavior that day toward you…. Well, all right, there’s actually more to it than just that. Fenris… is an escaped former slave of a Tevinter magister. He would have been likely to take very strongly against your Thomas as a result.”

“Tom doesn’t keep slaves.”

“That wouldn’t matter to Fenris. He hates anything to do with magisters… and Anders also said that he practices blood magic, which would set off Fenris even more. I confess I’m a little uneasy about introducing you to him, since you _are_ with one, but I think his reaction would be much worse upon meeting the magister himself. Ah, here is his house.” Hawke stopped at the door of a house in Hightown and rapped quietly on the door.

Hermione was confused. Hawke’s residence in Hightown made sense; she had a family manor. But how could a former elven slave afford it? “This is where he lives?”

Hawke smirked. “It is actually where his former master lives while he’s in Kirkwall, but Fenris is there to ambush him when he shows his evil face here someday.”

A smile formed on Hermione’s face at that image. In a second, the door opened, revealing a very unique-looking elven man, the tallest and most muscular elf she had ever seen. Though his face was young, white hair sprouted from his scalp. But the oddest features of his appearance were the glowing, bluish-white shimmering designs that covered his body. Hermione knew lyrium when she saw it. What had happened to him? Was his former master responsible for this?

“Hawke,” he said, his voice deeply tinged with irony. He took in Hermione’s Tevinter robes, which Tom had ordered for her so that she wouldn’t have to wear her Circle uniform. That article of clothing seemed to offend Tom, and Hermione herself supposed that it wasn’t appropriate to wear anymore even though a part of her didn’t much like being dressed up like a doll…. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen her old uniform since this clothing had arrived. Could he have destroyed it?

Fenris’ lips curled a bit, bringing her thoughts back to the moment. “And your new friend.”

Hermione greeted him politely. “Fenris,” she said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

He smothered a grimace. “Likewise,” he choked out. He turned to Emma. “Isabela is out tonight. I’m afraid she won’t be joining us.”

“I’m worried about her,” said Emma. “She’s concealing something from all of us, something _big,_ and I fear that it’s bigger than she can handle. I’ll get the truth out of her someday, Fenris. But,” she collected herself, “it’s quite all right. You, me, Varric, Hermione here, and Merrill. That’s a fine party.”

As the elf joined them, Hermione attempted to find a topic of conversation. She struggled with one. It would not do to bring up his past as a slave, and certainly not the lyrium tattoos that he bore….

“How did you and Emma meet?” she finally asked him.

Fenris snarled in anger. “I hired her through a middleman to get to the bottom of a _trap_ that the vile man who used to own me set for me,” he seethed.

Hermione sighed. It seemed that there was no way to avoid the topic. “Well, it seems that you got more than your money’s worth! She must have sprung the trap and earned your friendship.”

Fenris was surprised by Hermione’s reaction. “I… suppose so.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what you must have suffered.”

The elf scowled. “Yet I hear that you have taken up with a magister yourself.”

Hawke stopped abruptly and shot him a glare. “Fenris,” she began to warn.

“He doesn’t practice slavery,” Hermione said firmly. “There are no slaves in his home.”

“Has he led votes in the Magisterium to abolish the practice?”

“I… honestly have no idea,” said Hermione. “Why?”

“He has power. If he does not use it, he is complicit in the evil.”

Hermione glared back at him. “He hasn’t been a magister for that long.”

“I’m sure he has been one long enough that many slaves have been sacrificed in blood magic rituals since he became a magister.”

“All right then,” said Emma at once, “let’s not do this, shall we? This is meant to be a fun night out.”

Hermione huffed to herself and gathered her robes close. Fenris was prickly indeed, she thought. How could he consider it even partially Tom’s fault that the Imperium still allowed slavery? Tom was one of the youngest ever to sit in the Magisterium, and he was still newly seated, arguably. How could he alone lead a vote to end such a long-standing practice?

She was relieved when they finally reached the Hanged Man. Emma pushed the door open, letting them inside, and they quickly made their way to the table, where Varric and another elf—a pretty young woman with Dalish tattoos on her face—sat.

“Merrill?” Hermione said, stepping forward, her hand extended.

The thin little elf opened her eyes wide. “Yes,” she said, shaking Hermione’s hand quickly. Evidently that was not a Dalish greeting, Hermione thought with chagrin.

They glanced awkwardly at each other for another moment. Then Merrill gasped. “Oh no, I forgot! I’m so sorry! Your name is Hermione. I should have—”

“It’s _fine,”_ Hermione reassured her, smiling as she took her seat.

“Really?” Merrill looked skeptical. She glanced down at the tabletop. “People always say that when I do something wrong, but—”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Hermione said. “And when _I_ say it’s fine, it’s fine!”

Emma Hawke chuckled. “She’s like me in that respect, Merrill. If she says it to you, believe it.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “All right, then.”

Hermione gave the elf woman a friendly smile as they began their dinner. The subject soon turned to magical theory, and Hermione noticed that Fenris basically checked out of this discussion with a scowl on his face and turned to Varric and Hawke for conversation.

However, it was interesting. Merrill _was_ a blood mage, and she _had_ learned it from a pride demon, both of which were forbidden by the Dalish clans, so she had been exiled from hers for as long as she chose to continue this path. That seemed likely to be a permanent rift, because Merrill quickly began discussing, with enthusiasm, the new form of magic that she had developed that blended blood magic with the traditional magic of the _elvhen_ —the Dalish name for her people. She also had a project on which she was working that apparently required blood magic, or so she believed—an enchanted mirror created by her ancestors, the ancient elves.

Hermione felt terrible for the elf woman despite her bad choice to consult with a demon. _She cannot apprentice herself to anyone in Tevinter,_ she thought, _because she is a Dalish elf and they would enslave her on sight in the Imperium. She lives in the Kirkwall alienage, but it sounds as if the elves there have not accepted her because she is Dalish and she is a mage. She really is alone in the world but for Emma._

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense to her that Harry would have fallen for this woman, she thought. Emma Hawke tried to help everyone. She tried to maintain a group of friends who all liked _her_ even if they did not all like each other. She accepted Hermione, a woman from Harry’s past—even if not a romantic past—without issue. _I hope he visits the town again soon,_ Hermione thought.

She turned back to Merrill. “As you may know, I am in a relationship with a Tevinter magister who owns a house in Kirkwall. I think you should meet him. He practices the same kind of magic you do, though he learned it from books and tutors. He might have some insights into your… problem.”

Merrill seemed to close up for the first time. “It would be a very strange thing if a human Tevinter magister assisted me in restoring the _eluvian,”_ she said tightly. “The ancient magisters destroyed Elvhenan. But,” she reflected, “I need not tell him what I am _doing_ with the magic. I could simply tell him about the magic I am practicing, and if he had anything to teach me that I thought would be useful for the _eluvian,_ I could keep that to myself.”

Hermione was a bit taken aback by this blunt explanation, but then, it was Merrill’s way to say things that other people might not say. “As you like, of course,” she said. “You don’t have to meet him at all if you are uncomfortable with the idea.”

“I… will think about it,” she said.

* * *

When Hermione returned to Tom’s mansion, she entered the house with the key that he had given her. It was late, and she wondered if he had gone to bed. She did not want to wake him, but if he _was_ awake, she wanted him to know she was here.

She first entered his study. A magical lamp was still shining by his desk, so she went over to it, hoping to greet him there. The chair was empty, however, and the dim light illuminated the study strangely, casting long shadows toward the dark red drapes. Hermione’s attention was diverted by an unfinished letter that sat on his desk. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help but read it.

 

_Magister Danarius,_

_Please do not ask me to sort out your personal business for you ever again. I know you did not mean anything by it, but customs and traditional beliefs are hard to shake, so I would remind you that my bloodline does not make me your hireling. We are both Magisters of the Imperium, inheritors of an ancient title that used to be respected across all Thedas, and that, by the Maker and the Powers of the Fade, will be again someday. I confess I don’t know why you are so determined on this, given that it’s just one individual, but since you are, you would be better served by hiring professionals to do it—or coming to Kirkwall yourself._

_On to other matters. Regarding the Ven. and our efforts, I am doing my best to identify promising people. There are many mages of the Kirkwall Circle who escape, some of whom are unusually talented. By sheer happenstance I found one young woman recently in the process of an attempted escape, which I facilitated. I… would like you to meet her someday. I have not met a mage like her since B., and yes, my friend, that implies exactly what you think_

 

Here the letter ended abruptly. Hermione glanced around the study quickly, relieved that Tom was not standing aside somewhere and watching her read his correspondence, but she still felt flattered. He had put that in writing! He was speaking of his feelings for her in writing to another magister. That had to be a good sign. She knew who “B” was, and although she could not figure out who or what “the Ven.” was, it seemed likely to be code for his work with the Mage Underground, given the context. She wondered what the “Powers of the Fade” were. _Tevinter mages have a different idea of spirits,_ she thought. _These are probably especially powerful spirits._

However interesting this letter was, though, Hermione still had not found Tom. She quickly left the room and continued to the library.

 _There_ he was. Tom was seated in a large, cushioned chair, reading a book. His handsome face was growing stormy at whatever he was reading.

“I’m home,” she said. He glanced up at her, his face softening.

“Welcome,” he said. He gestured at the empty chair nearest him. “Why don’t you have a seat? I _don’t_ suppose you would like another drink,” he said wryly.

She laughed and sat down. “Best call it a night, yes. What is that book?”

He held it up so that she could see the cover: _Memoirs of Darrian Tabris, Hero of Ferelden._

“It arrived!” she exclaimed. “What was upsetting you so much?”

He scowled. “Tabris is… very different… from most of his kind, as I suspected.”

“His _kind?”_ Hermione did not much care for that expression….

“City elves. He was indeed a diamond in the rough. I was just surprised at how _rough_ it really was. He included a document written by a ‘hahren,’ or village elder, of another alienage. It’s despicable. Just _look_ at this.” He passed the book to Hermione to read.

Gingerly she took it in her hands and scanned the page.

 

_But don't be so anxious to start tearing down the walls and picking fights with the guards. They keep out more than they keep in. We don't have to live here, you know. Sometimes a family gets a good break, and they buy a house in the docks, or the outskirts of town. If they're lucky, they come back to the alienage after the looters have burned their house down. The unlucky ones just go to the paupers' field._

_Here, we're among family. We look out for each other. Here, we do what we can to remember the old ways. The flat-ears who have gone out there, they're stuck. They'll never be human, and they've gone and thrown away being elven, too. So where does that leave them? Nowhere._

Hermione passed the book back to Tom. “I… don’t really agree with that attitude either, quite honestly. That mentality keeps people from trying to better themselves. I had to set it aside once I decided that the time had come to escape the Circle. Sometimes what we think is ‘safety’ is just an illusion and it’s really only _familiarity.”_

“Precisely!” Tom exclaimed, glad that she agreed with him. “And you know what Tabris wrote _after_ he included this? Tabris was from Denerim, but he had relatives in Highever, and this was written by the hahren there. The _same_ Highever that was attacked by a rival noble Dog Lord, who”—he seemed almost gleeful in this, she noted with some dismay—“ransacked their precious, ‘safe’ alienage and sold every last one of them to slave traders.” He chuckled darkly. “Tabris comments that their alienage walls did not protect any of them from Arl Rendon Howe, but that a single family who _had_ bought property outside the place _did_ survive.”

“All that aside,” Hermione said quickly, “it’s not a good attitude no matter what happens, even if an alienage _does_ remain safe from such things.”

“Oh, Tabris’ own history is quite interesting too,” Tom continued, his eyes gleaming with malice. “His _wedding_ was attacked by another thuggish barbarian lord and his bride was raped and murdered. He fought back, and that’s what got the attention of the Grey Wardens that led to his conscription into the order. The old Warden-Commander took note of his courage, which wouldn’t have happened if he’d followed the advice of the Highever hahren. Nice, safe, and _smug_ in their self-imposed poverty, so _lucky, looking out for each other,_ unlike those who dared to take a risk to improve their condition—up until a Dog Lord sells them all!”

Tom was taking entirely too much joy in this, Hermione thought. “I met a Dalish elf tonight,” she said.

“Oh, the _Dalish_ are another matter,” Tom said. He looked conflicted for the first time. “I… suppose that they are at least independent. But I don’t have anything to do with them.”

“The person I met has been exiled from her Dalish clan because she wanted to practice blood magic.”

Tom raised his eyebrows at that. “And she is another friend of Emma Hawke? Interesting.”

“She _is_ interesting. I think you would respect her, Tom. Clearly you respect Tabris, and he’s not even a mage. I’m glad you are reading his memoir,” she added. “I realize that your exposure to elves in the Tevinter Imperium must have been just as slaves and servants, but for me, it was different. I spent most of my life in the Circle, as you know, and elves and humans were all equal there.”

“Equal as captives of the templars, yes.”

“And _equal as mages,”_ she said. “The First Enchanter of Kirkwall is an elf. You wanted me to open my mind about certain kinds of magic. I think you should open yours about elves.” Surprised at her own boldness, but pleased with herself, she gazed pointedly at him.

Tom looked as if he wanted to argue back hotly with her, but the urge passed. He relaxed in his chair, closing Tabris’s book and putting it down on a side table. He rubbed his eyes thoughtfully before speaking.

“I apologize for the phrasing of my views,” he said to her, his tone of voice relaxed and calm now. “I… have strong opinions on this subject, which, believe it or not, are not very well in alignment with most of my fellow—well, _Tevinters,_ let alone _magisters.”_

Hermione thought that what she had heard so far seemed to be very much in line with typical Tevinter views about elves. “What do you mean?” she inquired.

He took a deep breath. “You’ve heard the story about how the ancient Tevinter Imperium destroyed the elven kingdom, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” she said. _Merrill mentioned it just tonight, in fact._

“I don’t think it is true,” he said bluntly, “and that puts me at odds with most of my countrymen, who not only believe it, but take pride in the idea.”

“What do you think happened, then?”

“I have studied the history of civilizations,” Tom said. “I am a magister, and I have studied magic in great detail, but another aspect of being a magister is the political aspect, so I have a great deal of interest in history too. Based on how almost every civilization evolved, I suspect that the ‘great’ Elvhenan rotted from within, and the first Tevinters basically just picked the bones. I don’t have any physical evidence of that,” he said at once, “but it’s my suspicion. Why should _elves,_ of all people, be so much better than everyone else that they wouldn’t fall to internal corruption?”

Hermione considered this. “It’s an interesting alternative view, and it could be true, I suppose… though you are the first person I’ve ever heard suggest it. Everyone—the Dalish, the Circles, the Chantry—and apparently the Tevinter Chantry and other magisters—believes that it was conquered.”

“And _who_ exactly benefits from that view?” he said, aggression in his words once again. “The White Chantry uses this story to defame and malign the Tevinter Imperium, even though the priests will then immediately condemn the ancient elves for being ‘pagan.’ My fellow magisters think this is something that makes them ‘fearsome,’ not realizing that being ‘fearsome’ and tyrannical is not going to win them any points with anyone. It’s asinine, all the more so if it isn’t even true.” He scowled. “And the elves, of course, nurse their grudge, even if they live in cities and haven’t been Dalish since the fall of the Dales.” He smiled mirthlessly. “And on _that_ subject. I’ll open my mind about elves, Hermione, but I have a problem with the Dalish refusing to take responsibility for abandoning their oath to the Grey Wardens during a Blight. One could say that the fall of the Dales was justice for that.”

Hermione gaped at him. “It was more complicated than that….”

“Perhaps so,” he conceded. “But they _did_ betray their oath. And now”—he picked up the memoir again—“their descendants either prowl the woods or live in slums, taking pride in their own dismal circumstances, enviously looking down on those who try to do more.” He sighed. “I will meet your Dalish friend, if you like. She sounds like a promising one. She wanted to do something, to expand her horizons, and she put that goal first, no matter what. Even though it cost her her clan. I respect that.”

“Try not to hold forth to her about her people in this manner,” Hermione chastised him. “I understand it—you’re Tevinter—but please, don’t do it to her. She won’t like it. And do try to open your mind. I don’t ask that you respect every single elf, any more than you respect every human, but _try_ to see them as individuals _first_ rather than only making ‘exceptions’ for them if they do something to ‘prove themselves’ to _you.”_

He looked sincerely chastened at that. “You may be right,” he admitted. “There are elven mages I have encountered in this city who… would make decent magical scholars in Tevinter, but they have no chance of ever doing that.” He stared ahead. “I’ll meet this Dalish mage.” After another moment, he turned to her with a genuine smile.

She got up from her chair and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot to me.”

He pulled her into his arms, hugging her, before releasing her. “You should go to bed.”

Hermione would have been happy to continue the discussion, especially since it seemed that she had made some real progress in breaking down his prejudice, but she saw the wisdom in his words. She _was_ sleepy. As she bade him goodnight and went upstairs, she found herself wishing that he would accompany her.

 _Someday, perhaps,_ she thought. _Tonight is not a good night for that either. It should be when I am not tired and half-tipsy. It should be perfect when it does happen._

* * *

Merrill was ambivalent about dinner with a Tevinter magister, but Emma Hawke saved the day once again by proposing that it occur at her table, a neutral location that Merrill would like, instead of Tom’s. Tom was a bit affronted by the idea of the meeting not taking place in his house, but he did not back out of it once it was proposed. Two nights after Hermione had met Fenris and Merrill, she found herself donning fine robes once again to meet Merrill in the Hawke estate. It would not be a formal dinner, but rather, a late-night supper with drinks. That evening, she walked arm-in-arm with Tom to the mansion.

A silver-haired woman greeted them at the door beside Emma. The lady was flustered and apparently uncomfortable by the presence of so many mages.

“Hermione. Magister Riddle. This is my mother, Leandra Hawke,” Emma said in introduction.

“I am so honored by your presence!” the woman exclaimed, welcoming them in. Just behind the Hawke women lurked Merrill, who eyed Tom warily. “I just hope that my accommodations are suitable for one of such lofty stature.”

Tom shook his head in amusement at that. “Mistress Hawke,” he said, “we are here for a casual sup with your daughter’s friend to discuss magical theory. I am certain that everything will be just as it should be.”

Hawke pulled Merrill forward and introduced her as well. The elf seemed to muster some courage from her friend’s support, standing upright and meeting Tom’s gaze with her own as she was introduced.

Leandra felt uncomfortable being at a table surrounded by mages who would be discussing magical topics. She excused herself and went to her bedroom, smiling at her daughter and her friends as she closed the door behind her.

Emma and the mages retreated to the dining room. A couple bottles of wine were set out, as well as late-night snackable foods, and they helped themselves to what they desired.

“I’m glad we could all do this,” said Hermione, exchanging a grateful glance with Emma. “It’s a great opportunity.”

“I feel a bit odd about enabling the practice of blood magic,” Emma said wryly, “but this has been a source of… discussion… between Merrill and me. If Magister Riddle has anything to say”—she nodded in acknowledgment to him—“that will help my friend in her pursuits, that would be wonderful.”

“What, exactly, are you trying to do?” Tom asked Merrill.

Merrill closed up. “I am trying to repair an artifact of my people. I believe blood magic will be necessary to do it.”

Tom regarded her calmly. “Do you think the artifact was created with blood magic?”

“I do. There are few of them remaining in the world, but it is my suspicion that it requires the blood of one of the People—elves—to function as it should.” She glowered. “My clan’s Keeper does not agree with my pursuit of this. I think she is wrong. This is about recovering our history.”

A light seemed to dawn across Tom’s face at that. “I… agree with you entirely that the history of one’s people is valuable,” he said. “Valuable and worth recovering… though you may be surprised at what you discover. I hope you are prepared for some surprises.”

Merrill regarded him with a stare. “The knowledge itself would be worth any surprises, good or bad. No one has supported me at all except Emma… and she does not support my methods….”

“How did you meet?” Hermione suddenly asked.

“Oh, _that_ is a story,” Emma said. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Does it involve magic?” Hermione teased. “That is the topic of discussion we agreed upon, after all.”

Emma grinned. “Does it ever! All right. When my family and I escaped Ferelden to come to Kirkwall, we… had assistance. Assistance of a magical sort.”

Merrill added, “I do not know if they speak of _Asha’bellanar,_ the Witch of the Wilds, also known as Flemeth, in Tevinter.”

“Not very much,” Tom said, “but I have heard of her through my own reading.” He paused. _“She_ assisted your family?” he asked Hawke.

“She did, and she gave us an amulet, asking us to go to the Dalish clan on the Sundermount and bring it to the Keeper for a ritual. She delegated the task to Merrill, who laid it out on a Dalish altar and spoke some words in her own language.” She took a deep breath. “A… spectral… form of Flemeth emerged. She claimed that she had put a ‘tiny piece’ of herself into the amulet—”

 _“Really!”_ Tom’s eyes were gleaming in interest and hunger. “I’ve never heard of such magic. That could be very useful. Do you—”

“I do not know what spell _Asha’bellanar_ used to do it,” Merrill said. “It is lost to us, if indeed any but… one such as she… could divide her own spirit.”

Tom looked disappointed. “Very well.”

“That’s how we met,” Emma finished. “Merrill has been with my party of companions ever since. Now, about this artifact.”

They continued late into the night. Hermione noticed, with some pleasure, that Tom seemed to genuinely open up and offer magical advice to Merrill about blood magic, glad to share his knowledge— _or boast of his knowledge,_ she thought wryly—even if Merrill was not being forthcoming about the elven artifact that she wanted to repair.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Tom said at last as he and Hermione rose later that night. The moon hung low in the sky, it was so late.

Merrill nodded. “I will take your advice about the importance of place and season in repairing the object. I did not even think that my house in the Alienage might be a problem….”

“The entire city of Kirkwall might be a problem,” Tom said. “The Veil is thin here. There is likely to be interference.”

“So that’s what it is,” Hermione said. “That’s the reason why….”

“Why so many mages go wrong?” Emma said darkly.

“I wouldn’t put it _that_ way,” Tom muttered. He turned to Merrill. “Take it to a site somewhere else. It shouldn’t be in your house. It probably should not be in this city at all.”

* * *

“She has an ancient mirror of Arlathan, doesn’t she?” Tom asked Hermione once they were back in his mansion.

Hermione was startled. “I… haven’t actually seen it—”

He gave her a smirk. “You’re a terrible obfuscator when it comes to me, my dear. It’s quite all right. I’m not going to take your friend’s property from her.”

Hermione managed a quick laugh. “I suppose I should have known that you would deduce what it was.”

“I _have_ studied ancient magic,” he said loftily, “although the process she mentioned tonight was something I’ve never heard of.”

“Yes, even _you_ don’t know _everything_ about magic,” Hermione teased.

He pulled her close in his arms. “I never said I did. There are some fields of which I know very little, such as healing, because it, well….” He trailed off.

“It isn’t interesting to you?”

“I don’t mean to offend you. I know that your parents were healers.”

“I’m not offended. Of course you are more interested in some kinds of magic than others. But… I would like to learn more about it,” she admitted. “I would like to honor them that way.”

He considered. “Well, there are _books_ on all kinds of things in this house.”

Hermione had another idea in mind. She resolved to tell him about it later, once she had looked into it and decided whether it was something she could even stand. It was possible that nothing would come of it, after all. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said lightly, holding his hand. “Good night, Tom.” She squeezed his hand and released it to stand on tiptoe for a quick kiss.

He looked for a moment as if he wanted to do more, but he collected himself. “Good night, Hermione.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text of the Highever hahren’s note is a direct copy-and-paste from the game codices.
> 
> I know: Tom is being racist. But what he says is also DA canon. _He_ doesn’t know that his assumption about Elvhenan’s fall is indeed correct; he has that suspicion for racist reasons, so that’s an example of a stopped clock being right twice a day. But the Dalish abandonment of the Wardens in a Blight is pretty widely known, and the hahren’s text for Tabris’s intro is, in my opinion, utterly contemptible.
> 
> The pace of this story is going to pick up pretty soon. I think Harry will make his grand appearance in Chapter 7, but something really important will _finally_ happen between Tom and Hermione in Chapter 6 too (after a big confrontation that you can see coming if you can guess what Hermione intends to do to learn healing magic). I'm going to attempt to make the updates happen more quickly, perhaps once every two weeks. I don't think I can do a weekly update schedule, but I also don't want to fall into the trap of taking too long.


	6. Catfights of Darktown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending of this chapter is NSFW!

Hermione gathered a few items, reluctantly deciding to take along a staff. She would just wrap it up so that any templars or informers she encountered would not _immediately_ recognize it for what it was. She was trying to learn how to cast powerful, precise spells without one, but she was not there yet, and certainly not for healing. Healing was a very delicate affair, and to the extent that she had clear memories, she did not think she could remember ever seeing her parents healing without their staves. And after all, there was a shortcut to an area of Darktown very near where she wanted to go that was accessible from Emma Hawke’s basement. Templars tended not to patrol Hightown. Hermione wondered about that….

Tom was closeted in his study with his correspondence and records again. Hermione supposed that, since he _was_ a magister, he would have a lot of things to do even when he was not at home in Minrathous. It was odd to reflect on the fact that for Tom, “home” was indeed in faraway Minrathous, not Kirkwall, and odd as well to recall that the magisters of Tevinter were the _political_ leaders of that country. Everywhere else, the idea of mages in a country’s political leadership was unheard of and bizarre, even wrong and borderline heretical, but it was the ancient way of things in Tevinter. Tom must have political things to do too.

“I’ll be back later,” she told Aspire on the way out. She still was not quite comfortable with the spirit, but it seemed benign enough.

“I will inform the magister when he asks about your absence,” she replied in her lofty voice. “Where shall I tell him that you have gone?”

She took a deep breath, having a feeling that Tom would not like this and wishing that Aspire had not pressed the issue. “A healer’s clinic in Darktown. Mistress Emma Hawke, our neighbor, will know where it is. I’m perfectly well; I’m just going to ask for training in healing magic.”

Aspire did not detect any of Hermione’s unease. “As you say, Lady Granger. Have a good day.”

As Hermione made her way toward the Hawke estate, she felt trepidation. _Anders may actually dislike me,_ she thought suddenly. _What do I really know about jealousy? I lived in the Circle ever since I began to understand what “romantic jealousy” even is. I may be misreading it. He may not be jealous; he may dislike me, period, because I have expressed tolerance for blood magic under special circumstances._

She cast aside the doubt as the Hawke mansion’s door came into her line of sight. If this didn’t seem promising, she just wouldn’t return. She was under no obligation to spend any time with the friends of someone else, especially if they didn’t like her company.

“Good morning!” Emma exclaimed when she opened the door and found Hermione on the doorstep. “Don’t linger!” She pulled Hermione inside. As Hermione followed the other woman into a large living space overlooked by a balcony, she found herself admiring Emma’s... _effervescence,_ Hermione decided. This young woman had lost so much, but she was still basically a happy, cheerful, optimistic person.

“What’re you up to today?” Emma asked Hermione.

“I, uh… was actually going to pay a visit to one of _your_ friends,” she said.

“Oh, dear,” chuckled Emma. “Have you invited them to my house without telling me?” She retrieved the dagger from her belt and fingered its blade almost sensually. “Not done, Granger.”

Hermione would have been put off but for the fact that Emma’s green eyes were alight with teasing. She laughed. “No, I do have _some_ notion of social courtesy despite being under the boot of Meredith Stannard for years,” she said. Emma let out a muffled laugh at the jibe at the Knight-Commander’s expense, and Hermione continued. “I needed to go through your cellar to go to Darktown. I was going to ask Anders to teach me more about healing magic.”

The blade returned to its owner’s belt, and the laugh lines on Emma’s face disappeared. Her eyebrows knitted together. “Are you sure about that?”

“Erm… yes?” Hermione said. “Why? Shouldn’t I? I know how he’s acted, but I thought it was because he was… well… jealous of Tom over me. Is that wrong? Does he _dislike_ me?”

The frown vanished. “Oh no, you’re right; it was jealousy,” said Emma. She hesitated, as if wanting to tell Hermione something.

“What’s the matter?”

Emma took a deep breath. “Nothing. It’s fine. I just… you write to Harry, don’t you?”

Whatever Hermione had expected to hear, that was not it. “I do,” she said. “Why?”

“I… have to ask you, if you’re going to be learning healing magic from Anders, please not to mention it to him in your letters. Don’t mention Anders at all, actually.”

 _What in the Void?_ Hermione thought. She gazed evenly at Emma. “Any particular reason?”

“He and Harry do not get along,” Emma said, looking away, her face tense. “At all. They detest each other.”

Hermione frowned. “I seem to remember that on the first night we met, the night I escaped from the Circle, Anders claimed he had never met Harry.”

Emma’s eyes widened momentarily. “He said that? I had forgotten. Well, that was a lie, not to put too fine a point on it,” she said quickly. “He didn’t want to speak ill of your best friend—and my partner—in front of us, over a personal dislike he holds.”

“You’re sure Anders really has that much tact?” Hermione said wryly, but it was a rhetorical question. “All right, I won’t mention him in my letters to Harry. Why do they hate each other so much? I need to know that so that I won’t inadvertently bring up… whatever the reason, the topic, is.”

“It’s a long story involving a run-in Anders had years ago with the Grey Wardens and some templars….” She hesitated. “He had escaped from the Fereldan Circle and they handed him over to the templars.”

“Why would they have done that? They accepted Harry into their ranks and he was an escaped Circle mage too!”

“Different unit. Harry joined the Marcher Wardens, but Anders holds the entire Order responsible,” she said simply. “Anders… holds grudges, Hermione. You need to know that if you’re going to learn magic from him. He has a… vengeful streak, and it is not always rational.”

“And Harry dislikes him because of this unfair grudge?”

Emma nodded.

“This is really stupid,” she burst out. “He needs to put the past behind him and also recognize when someone _didn’t have anything to do with what happened._ Harry probably wasn’t even a Grey Warden when this happened, and he certainly wasn’t with the Fereldans.”

“I agree!” Emma exclaimed. “I just wanted you to know. I don’t want you in the middle of stupid petty bullshit, is all.”

She managed a smile. “Well, thanks for the warning. I will be sure not to mention Harry to him, either. I just want to learn more healing magic, truly.”

Emma began to lead Hermione to the Hawke cellar. “He’s the one to teach it to you.”

* * *

Hermione felt pangs of memory, flashbacks, she supposed, when she entered Darktown. Her chest hitched in unease, as if she expected to be mobbed by rapist templars again— _but no,_ she reminded herself, _they are dead. Tom killed them._ She gazed ahead, facing the door that Emma had told her led to the clinic, and knocked briskly.

The door was opened, revealing not the face she would have recognized, but a dark-haired woman with a tattoo on one side of her face and an unpleasant glower in her eyes. A strange symbol, a very stylized, very narrow and rigid hand surrounded by what seemed to be a partial compass rose, was stitched onto a pocket flap of her mercenary-style clothing—a tiny little badge, but a striking one. Without a word, she looked Hermione up and down, sizing her up. When she noticed the staff on her back, she relaxed visibly. “All right,” she said. “You clearly are too well-off to be a refugee, but those look like Tevinter robes, and anyway I see you’re one of us, so come in.”

“You are a mage too?” Hermione asked as the woman closed the door behind her. She gazed around the dingy clinic. In one corner, a patient lay on a sickbed while a mage bent over, healing light emanating from his hands. _There he is,_ she recognized.

“My name is Grace and I escaped the Maker-forsaken Circle of Starkhaven a while back,” she said, her voice still sour and unpleasant.

Hermione felt vaguely disappointed; if Anders already had a healing apprentice, he might not want to take on another. “My name is Hermione and I escaped Kirkwall’s a few weeks ago, so we have something else in common. Are you learning healing from him?”

“No. I’m the guard, and yes, he needs one. We have contacts who can pay off some of the templars to let us alone, but there are some who are just complete bloody zealots,” she said darkly. “These refugees need Anders. We won’t let the lyrium-heads take him away.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Hermione wondered. “The Mage Underground?”

“Yes,” Anders himself suddenly said, moving away from the patient. “The Mage Underground”—he gazed pointedly at Grace—“and someone else makes the bribes that you actually know yourself, Hermione. Varric Tethras.” He smiled faintly. “I know her, Grace. She’s a friend of Hawke’s.” He turned to her. “What brings you here today?”

Hermione was pleased that he was behaving more civilly around her today. Perhaps the talking-to that Hawke had given him earlier had made a difference. “Are you busy? I don’t want to keep you from helping these people.”

“If a patient needed me right now, I wouldn’t have come over here,” he replied, still smiling faintly.

“Ah, of course. Well… if you want to know, and please know that you _don’t_ have to say yes to this, but I was…. My parents were healers too,” she said, fumbling for her words, “and I wanted to learn more about the same kind of magic they practiced. I think it would honor them. They didn’t want us to learn much about it in the Circle, probably because it would instill in us an urge to help people in the general public with our talents and leave the Circle—”

“That’s exactly what I think too,” he growled, that curious whitish gleam that she had seen once or twice flashing in his eyes again.

“And you, well, are obviously the person to see about that….”

He smiled a real smile this time. “I’m flattered. I don’t know what kind of teacher I would be, but you can certainly watch. Have you had _any_ training in this school of magic?”

“A little.”

“A little is better than nothing,” he said briskly, taking her arm and escorting her to the other side of the clinic. Hermione wondered about that; he was awfully eager to make contact, but it was a harmless sort. Perhaps he had come from a background in which gentlemen escorted ladies by default and it meant nothing but simple courtesy.

Grace returned to guard the door, but her stare—more of a glare, really—never quite left them until she heard some peculiar sounds on the other side of the door. Anders and Hermione paused in their tracks as she pulled the door open, but no one was there.

A fluffy orange cat, however, was. It had been scratching at the door with its front paws, and one of the back paws was clearly lame.

Unmitigated delight bloomed over Anders’ face. He dropped Hermione’s arm and hurried over to the door toward the cat. “Oh, you poor kitty,” he began to coo at the creature as he bent down—

A vicious, furious sound, a mix of a growl and a hiss, left the cat’s mouth, followed by a blur right in front of its face.

 _“Maker!”_ Anders pulled his hand back. A nasty scratch, or rather several scratches—one for each of the cat’s claws—had already appeared on his hand, and blood was streaming freely. At his feet, the cat gave another aggressive snarl at him and limped toward Hermione.

She was more than a little bit alarmed; this was a large cat and it was clearly angry. She readied her magic to halt it in its tracks before it could tear up her ankles, but as it reached her, its body language visibly relaxed and became friendly. It gazed up at her with wide eyes, ears facing forward, and uttered a plaintive mew.

“I don’t know that I trust you after what you did to him,” she scolded the cat. Off to the side, Anders was quickly healing the scratch, giving the cat a shocked look. “However, you _do_ have a hurt paw. I think I’ll try to heal it without picking you up, hm?”

She got on bent knee and sent a wave of general healing magic, the only such spell that she knew, at the creature’s lame foot. It mewed again as the injury appeared to lessen, but it did not fully go away. The cat, however, was won over. It rubbed affectionately against Hermione’s legs and extended its tongue to give her a lick.

“I have never been snubbed by a cat before,” Anders remarked, rubbing his now-healed hand as he approached them again. “And I’ve never seen this one around Darktown. Maybe he came out from wherever he was hiding to pick _you_. He seems to like you….”

“Unless he is trying to deceive me,” she snarked, eyeing the animal.

“Why don’t you pick him up? If he scratches or bites you, I can fix it.”

Gingerly Hermione lifted up the fluffy, bandy-legged cat, but it made no false moves. Instead, it purred in her arms. Anders observed the proceedings enviously, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion—and then, suddenly, a look of abject horror and regret came over his face.

Hermione did not miss that look. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Cats… used to like me.”

That was a very strange thing to say, she thought, almost as if something had happened to him to make cats suddenly _not_ like him. Maker, why did he always make these cryptic, slightly off and unnerving comments? “I wouldn’t assume that this fellow’s reaction is universal for all cats.” She set the purring cat down on an examination table. “Let’s finish healing his poor leg. Obviously, I cannot do much. This can be my first lesson.”

Warily, Anders cast a deep sleep spell on the cat before showing her the specialized healing spells that he knew for bone and muscle injuries.

* * *

The orange cat, whom Hermione had decided to keep and name Crookshanks for his bandy little legs, was sleeping off his magical care. Hermione had already mastered the spells to specifically heal a broken bone and a torn muscle, both of which the cat had had, and she was chattering idly with Anders and Grace while they waited for a patient—feline or human—to awaken. Hermione did not miss the fact that Grace sat very close to him, almost possessively close. She also did not miss that Anders seemed to be oblivious to Grace’s blatant intentions. She hoped that that would change. She didn’t much like Grace, who was just as prickly and bitter in conversation as she had been on guard duty, but she definitely did not want this mage to think she was a rival. Something about Grace was… a bit scary to her.

“I escaped the Circle of Ferelden many times before I finally made it out permanently,” he muttered.

“You’d think they would take a hint,” Hermione joked.

“Templars never take hints,” Grace said savagely. “All they take is lyrium.”

Hermione sighed; this woman apparently thought that was funny, but she had no sense of humor herself, so it was impossible for her to crack a good joke. “I’m glad you did get away at last. You’re doing good work for these people.”

“The way Kirkwall has treated the refugees is simply unjust,” he declared. “I hope that, as Hawke advances in society, moving up in Hightown, she can change some minds….” He rubbed his head. “Fereldans, mages… this is a bad place.”

“In the Circle, there was a rumor that the reason Kirkwall has… so many mages who turn bad… is that it was built on a site of ancient Tevinter sacrifice and the Veil is thin here.”

His gaze hardened. “You should ask the magister about _that._ I’m sure I don’t know.”

“His _name_ is Tom.”

“And _you_ can call him that if he likes,” Anders snarled. He sighed, the angry scowl on his face suddenly vanishing in shame, and he turned aside. Grace glared hotly at Hermione.

She had been avoiding this subject, especially given her discovery of Grace’s apparently one-sided interest in him, but it seemed that she had to discuss it now. “Listen,” she said, keeping her voice as diplomatic as possible, “I know what you think of me.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You regret that you weren’t in the tunnel that day to fight off those templars for me. You don’t like that I am with a… Tevinter blood mage. It’s not that hard to see… but he’s _not a bad person._ I like him. And I am willing to learn to like you, too, but as a potential _friend.”_ She paused, gathering her thoughts, deciding how to say it. “That’s what we can have, _friendship—_ but not if you are hostile for no reason. It’s up to you.”

Grace’s face was changing as Hermione spoke, she noticed. The disgruntled sneer that had filled her face through most of this visit was evaporating.

He sighed deeply. “Friendship. Just like with Hawke.”

Hermione felt for Grace’s pain upon hearing that the man she desired appeared to want every female friend but her, but _this_ shed some interesting new light on the feud he had with Harry that Emma had told her about. She wondered if Emma realized this…. “You’ll find someone,” she told him, giving Grace a knowing, pointed look as she spoke the words, trying to let Grace know that she was on her side.

“I _had_ someone,” Anders burst out. “The _fucking_ templars made him Tranquil and used him as bait to try to do it to me. I had to _kill_ him.”

“You are attracted to women and men?” Hermione repeated rhetorically. “I knew a mage who… well, no matter. I’m really sorry about him, and I’m sorry you had to do that. That’s awful, horrible, truly evil, and it shouldn’t have happened. I presume the templars who did it….”

“Justice was done upon them,” he said, his voice as harsh and cold as she had ever heard it.

“You _will_ find someone new,” she insisted. “Widows and widowers do, all the time… and you might be surprised when you do. It might be just looking at someone you already know differently.”   She gave another look to Grace, whose expression had changed entirely now.

An aggressive, very loud knock sounded on the clinic’s door, shaking it on its rusty hinges, interrupting this conversation. Grace instantly leapt to attention, grabbing her staff off her back and hurrying to the door, ready to cast a spell at this person whose knock seemed threatening….

As soon as she had the door open just a crack, the person on the other side shoved it open all the way. Tom stood in the doorway, his heavy silk robes flowing down his body in elegant lines, as he scanned the clinic. When he saw Hermione and Anders sitting side by side, an outraged glare replaced the alarm that had filled his face. Ignoring Grace, he stormed toward them.

They were on their feet at once. “Tom! Is everything all right?” Hermione exclaimed.

“You tell me,” he replied. He glared at the other mage. “Hawke said she wanted to learn healing spells. That’s not what this looks like to me.” He regarded the feathered pauldrons of Anders’ coat speculatively, seemingly focusing on a single one that was a little loose.

“Just a minute here,” Hermione said at once, staring at him. “I was _talking_ with him, _and_ his guard Grace—whom you ignored—while the patients slept! I have already learned two useful healing spells this morning.”

“Are you going to let him treat you this way, Hermione?” Anders said, apparently unable to keep his mouth shut even when it was arguably stupid to speak. He eyed Tom. “You don’t have the right to prevent her from making new friends and learning new magic, _magister.”_

Tom glowered. His gaze shifted to the loose feather that was sticking up at a slight angle. Contempt dripping from every inch of him, he reached out and plucked it off Anders’ coat. He held it between thumb and forefinger, sneering down at the other mage.

Anders sputtered. “What the—how _dare_ you—”

“Tom!” Hermione exclaimed. “Get a grip on yourself! I’m _here to learn healing.”_

“I believe you,” he said, “but I also believe that….” He broke off, glaring at Anders.

“I haven’t done a bloody thing to her,” he snapped.

“You’re right,” Tom said. “You’re _still breathing._ And if you like that state of affairs, you’d best make sure that Hermione has no complaints when she comes home.”

Grace strode forward. “That’s enough. You are threatening a healer, Magister. If you have no further business here, I think you should leave now.”

Tom stared at her. His gaze shifted to the symbol Hermione had noticed on her clothing, the elongated hand. He nodded suddenly in awareness and respect. “I think so too.” He turned back to Hermione, his face much calmer. “Hermione, do any of these patients need you to do something for them after they awaken?”

She glanced at the cat. “The cat,” she said with a grin. “Guess what, Tom? We have a cat now.” It was sweet revenge for that embarrassing scene, she thought, to see the look of surprise in his eyes at this declaration. “He apparently followed me here. He had an injured leg. I’ve named him Crookshanks….”

With a huff, Anders brought the cat out of its magical sleep. As soon as Crookshanks’ eyes snapped open, his pupils widened starkly. He gave Anders another menacing hiss upon seeing his face and retracted his claws back and forth, in and out, threateningly.

Tom burst into a dark chuckle at that. “Yes, we’re _certainly_ keeping the cat,” he said. He walked toward the table where the animal was getting to its feet. Hermione wondered for a moment if Crookshanks would menace Tom too. It appeared that Grace and Anders were both hoping for that… but instead, Crookshanks merely eyed Tom warily. It was not friendly and affectionate like his reactions to Hermione, but neither was it violent and hostile.

Hermione joined him by his side and scooped up Crookshanks in her arms. It was clear to her that Tom expected her to return to Hightown, and she had no particular problem with it. She was going to have some words with him when she did, too.

“The feather from my coat,” Anders said to Tom. “Those are special—they have magic—”

Tom rolled the feather over between his thumb and forefinger. “I know they do. In Tevinter, we know _all_ about these… _and_ the magic that can be done with them.” Pointedly, he put it in a pocket inside his robes, to Anders’ utter fury. He balled his fists, but he seemed too intimidated by Tom to challenge him.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. _What is it with men and their petty little cockfights?_ she thought disdainfully. Giving Tom a disapproving sideways glare, she faced him. “All right. We’ll go home… and have a _talk.”_

* * *

Once they were inside the safety of Tom’s mansion, and Crookshanks was set loose to wander about and make himself at home, Hermione turned to Tom in anger. “Listen to me,” she said tersely. “Magister of the Imperium or not, you were out of line to do that.”

Tom glowered back at her. “I do not _share,_ Hermione.”

“And I’m not asking you to! Not in the way you’re hinting at, anyway. But I have _every_ right to advance my magical knowledge and make new friends. You do _not_ own me.”

He bristled at that particular choice of words, and she wondered if any phrasing that hinted at slavery would elicit such a reaction from him, but he did not comment directly on it. “He wants under your robes,” he growled instead.

“I am perfectly aware of that!” she exclaimed. “That doesn’t mean that I have to sacrifice opportunities to learn something new. If he were making me uncomfortable, that would be one thing, but he hasn’t done anything, hasn’t attempted to _act_ on that, and _you_ have nothing to worry about because I don’t want under _his_ robes. And you were more interested in his _coat_ than I was,” she couldn’t resist adding.

He briefly cracked a smile at that, but it vanished at once. “Hmph.”

“Besides, his guard, Grace, _is_ interested in him,” she said, “and I did my best to… set them up.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “I didn’t pick up on that….”

“I’m not surprised. You were obsessed with plucking that feather off his coat and threatening him. But she definitely is, and he’s really suffered a lot of losses and betrayals, Tom. There was no call to act that way. I think I steered him away from me. I _told_ him I was only interested in potentially being friends. I wasn’t dancing around it. I brought the subject out openly.” She scowled at him. “Now I suppose I have to apologize to him for _your_ behavior.”

“You don’t owe him an apology for a bloody thing.”

She blinked. “No, you’re right,” she said. _“You_ do.”

He bristled.

“And you should return that feather to him. What are you going to do with it, anyway?”

“Nothing,” he said with an expressive shrug and a smirk on his face. The feather in question rested on the side table between them.

“You implied that you intended to do something magical with it.”

He smirked wider. “The healer will think I can do some sort of evil Tevinter blood magic against him with it, but in truth, there’s very little that can be done with just one of them. They work best in threes or sevens, magically powerful numbers.”

Hermione shook her head. “So you just wanted to play a mind game.”

Tom smirked back.

“Tom, listen to me,” she insisted. “You _have_ to trust me to take care of myself and know what’s best for me. This relationship we have is not going to proceed any further if you don’t let me breathe. I have good instincts, I think, and I wouldn’t spend any time with people who made me feel threatened.”

Tom rose from his chair suddenly and turned to face her. “Hermione, that’s all very well for you to say, but _you_ have to understand that the very first time I saw you, you had been hit by a Holy Smite and were about to be dragged off to be _raped_ and _stripped of your humanity.”_ He stared at the wallpaper, then turned to face her, his face drawn. “Now I find you in Darktown again, your staff in hand, in the company of ‘apostate’ mages. I am _protective_ of you.”

This was sincere, she realized. He really did feel this way about her, and the idea of something bad happening to her was physically painful to him. It wasn’t even necessarily about Anders, though he was a convenient scapegoat, perhaps one that Tom had only created upon seeing them talking. He was afraid for her, afraid for her having gone to the crime-ridden tunnels of Darktown that were patrolled by templars looking for escaped mages. Some—not all, but some—of her irritation with him evaporated at this realization, and her voice was softer when she spoke. “Tom, that’s very sweet, and it means a lot to me… but Emma Hawke’s friends are not corrupted rapist templars! You know that! There are even templars themselves who are decent people. Most people aren’t like the monsters in that alley of Darktown that day.” She paused. “Templars who abuse their power hurt Anders too. They took someone special to him and made this person Tranquil to get at him.”

He breathed deeply. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I shouldn’t have…. You should return if you want to continue to learn healing. I have nothing to teach you about that subject, and you _should_ learn whatever magic interests you. I am concerned about the location….”

“It’s very close to a secret entrance to the Hawke cellar. There is a quick escape route if need be.”

Tom took another deep breath. “That makes me feel better,” he confessed. He turned around. “You can tell the feathered miscreant that your magister is not going to appear again to embarrass you or threaten _him…_ provided that he stays in line. I’d rather you didn’t tell him that the feather was just a trick, though.”

“He’s not a miscreant,” she said, smiling in spite of herself as she moved closer to him.

“I think he is,” Tom disagreed, pulling her against him and cradling her head. “He’s definitely hiring… erm….” He broke off.

She pulled away, though not out of his embrace. “Hiring…?” She suddenly recalled Tom’s reaction to seeing that odd little badge on Grace’s clothing. “Tom, what does that badge Grace had mean?”

He looked startled, and Hermione was suddenly absolutely certain her question and his aborted statement were related. He appeared caught for a moment, but he gathered his thoughts and replied quickly. “It’s the symbol of a… militant division of… the Mage Underground,” he said. If his words were spoken a bit too quickly, Hermione did not notice it.

“Militant how?”

“Most of them just want to spirit escaped mages away and avoid fighting, but some welcome the idea.”

“You fought the templars for me,” she said, smiling. “Am I going to find this symbol in some of your belongings too?”

He raised his eyebrows. “It’s a symbol for southern mages, not Tevinters,” he said, “but it’s… just possible that I have corresponded with some in the Underground who use it.”

“Then does that make you a miscreant too, working with them? Since it made him one?”

“Enough of them. I don’t want to talk about any-bloody-one else,” he growled suddenly, pulling her close for a quick but intense kiss.

She let him do it, let his hand trail from the sensitive spot just behind her ear down her jawline and neck, toward her chest. She had kissed Tom many times now… but suddenly, Hermione realized she was ready to take it to the next stage.

 _Not right this second, though,_ she thought. _Tonight._

A gasp escaped his mouth as she nipped at his lower lip. He drew away, staring at her, his dark eyes wide and his pupils very full. A half smile appeared on his mouth, one side curving upwards wickedly. “You _are_ a fast learner,” he said.

“In all things,” she replied, her words potent with meaning. She gazed upward at him from under lidded eyes. _“Tonight?”_ she whispered.

He stroked the side of her face, fingers threading in her hair. “You know where my bedchamber is. If you are there… _tonight.”_ He hesitated before adding, “And if not, I won’t say a word. I’m not going to push you.”

She understood that he said this specifically to reassure her, and make amends, for his scene this morning. The thought warmed her heart. “It’ll probably be tonight,” she said with a smirk.

“Then I shall eagerly await nightfall.” He stared intensely at her with those wide, plate-like pupils for another moment before turning away.

* * *

Hermione was nervous as the clocks ticked away the day and the sun grew low in the sky. Tom kept giving her potent, meaningful looks, though he did not say a word about her promise to him. The air was heavy with expectation anyway.

Hermione scrubbed herself almost mechanically in the bath that night. Her thoughts had instantly fled elsewhere as soon as she stripped off her day robes and saw her own nude body. _I am going to see his,_ she thought. She had never seen an actual adult male naked before. She speculated to herself about what he would look like under those magisterial robes. He seemed to be lean but fit. She hoped that this expectation would prove correct… it would be unfortunate if Tom turned out to be bony… but, she realized, she would find him attractive anyway.

 _That’s the curious thing,_ she thought. _I seem able to be attracted to people, whatever they look like, once I like them as people…._

She got out of the bath, dried herself, and pulled on the silk sleep robes he had procured for her. They were dark red with black dragon embroidery and black ribbons. He did have an eye for choosing colors that looked good on her, she thought, as she gazed upon her reflection in the mirror. She thought she looked mysterious, arcane—like she actually belonged in Tevinter itself. Somehow, she had picked up on the fact that a lot of Tevinter symbols and heraldry made use of those colors.

She tied the robes loosely around her waist and left the bathroom, heading down the hallway not to her own bedchamber— _if it will be that from now on,_ she thought—but to his. The heavy double doors were closed. She considered knocking, but no, he would want her to go inside, she thought. Turning the handles carefully, she pushed the doors open.

His bedchamber was opulent. Green draperies covered the tall windows and hung from the canopy bed. Tapestries and mysterious paintings covered the dark-papered walls, and Hermione felt her toes sink into the thick carpet that covered the floor. In one corner, near his bed, the staff that he used, a very ornate black one with a pale green globe in the twisting, branching top, rested against the wall.

He was seated in a chair, a book in hand, reading by lamplight. He closed it with a grin as she crossed the room toward him and rose from his seat. The black robes that he wore to bed hung from his form elegantly.

“Hermione,” he said, almost caressing her name. “I’m glad you didn’t change your mind.”

She reached him. “I just bet,” she teased. She gazed at him. “Before we… do this… I need to tell you something.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“As you know, I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I’m sure I will become accustomed to it, but at first….” She suddenly felt intimidated and embarrassed. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what _happens,_ obviously, but I am sure there are—details—and various, erm, alternate ways of….” She trailed off. “The point is, could you take the lead until I figure this out? Would you mind that? I hate feeling like such a _girl_ when I am a grown woman, but….”

He took her by the hand, his eyes aflame with feeling. “First of all, as you said yourself, you are a woman, so don’t think of yourself as a ‘girl’ just because you’re inexperienced with this. It _is not_ a required characteristic of being an adult. I had no experience either when I was twenty. That was just before….” He broke off, not wanting to mention anyone else in this moment that belonged to them, and instead rubbed her hand tenderly. “Second, trust me on this one, Hermione, I have _no_ objection to ‘taking the lead’ as you put it.” His dark eyes gleamed. “I… rather prefer it.”

Her eyes widened. “How do you mean?” she asked. Interesting, barely formed ideas passed through her mind at his words, the vague thought of being somehow confined to the bed, or held down physically by him, while he—

“There are things that I’m… interested in doing in the bedroom,” he said, his voice low and tight, “and if you want—which I very much hope you do—then we can do these things in the future. They all involve my ‘taking the lead,’” he repeated, a corner of his mouth curling slightly at the phrase. “But tonight, for your first time, not just with me, but _at all,_ I think we should keep it simple. It’s still natural for me to set the pace and lead, my dear,” he added, his voice almost a growl by now.

She caught her breath at that tone and clutched his hand tightly as he led her to the bed. He glanced at the mattress, then back at her face, capturing her lips quickly but intensely once more, then pulling her onto the bed with him.

The covers were embroidered silk, as were the sheets, and all were already pulled back. Hermione tumbled onto her back, her head sinking into the pillow, as he quickly braced himself on his arms and legs above her. He pushed her legs apart and got on his knees, which allowed him to bend over and plant a deep, almost sucking kiss on the side of her neck. _That will leave a mark,_ she thought suddenly as he pulled away with a definite sucking motion. She wondered if that was the _point…._

He breathed deeply and glared down at her, though not in anger, but desire. “Take that off,” he said.

Her eyes were as wide as plates, but she could not help but find that tone very appealing. She reached for the sash tying her sleep robe in place and pulled the bow apart. He watched, his gaze never leaving her, as she slipped out of the garment and began to gently fold it.

“Just throw it on the floor,” he said.

She glanced quickly to one side, balled up the robe, and tossed it over the side of the bed to his approval. “What about you?” she said boldly, noting how he stared at her exposed body hungrily.

“Oh, you want to see?” he said, smiling. He reached for the clasps that held his robe closed near his throat and began to unfasten them, deliberately slower than he had to, she was sure. As he unhooked each one, exposing more of his chest, she realized that it was exactly as she had hoped. A sculpted but lean set of muscles rippled before her. He smirked, watching her reaction proudly, and then untied the sash of his robes, opening them at the waist.

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh… erm….” She felt heat flushing her face.

He raised his eyebrows silently but pointedly.

“That’s… I mean, I know it’ll fit, but… ouch.”

“Probably, tonight, at least,” he admitted, tossing his robe aside, “but don’t worry, Hermione. I know a little trick.”

She wondered what he could mean, but not for long. He pushed her down even further into the pillow, hard, his powerful arms holding her in place, the palms of his hands gripping her shoulders like a pair of vises. He breathed deeply, as if preparing himself, then drew back and lifted her legs off the mattress, throwing them over his shoulders as he buried his face between them.

Hermione let out a shocked cry. She knew about this, but she could not have imagined the feeling of it until now. Until she had met him, the idea of this seemed strange and kind of unsanitary, in fact, but for it to be _him_ made all the difference in the world. She suppressed another cry when he dipped a finger, then, as she got used to that, a second and a third one, into her and began to tease her with them.

She began to tremble, her legs involuntarily trying to close around his head to hold him in place and to grant her release. He sensed from her increasingly erratic movements that she was approaching her peak and, eliciting a cry of disappointment from her, withdrew his fingers and then his face from her center.

He gazed at her for a moment. “How about _now,_ dear?”

Her eyes widened again as she took his meaning. She sucked in her breath. In a studied, deliberate movement, Tom lifted her legs off his shoulders, set them back down on the mattress, and positioned himself to hover above her again. He held her down by the shoulder with his left hand and pressed the fingers from his right, the ones that were slippery with her own desire, against her mouth. Instinctively she knew what to do; she opened her lips for him and let him slip them inside so that she could lick them, suck them, taste herself….

Quickly his fingers turned coarse against her tongue, and she realized that she had lapped up all that she had left on them. She released them, shivering as he let them linger a bit too long on the side of her face, feeling the wet slick turn chilly in the room temperature air. She also felt a hard, hot sensation at her _very_ ready core—

Hermione drew in her breath sharply as he slid into her. Her eyes momentarily closed. Yes, there was pain—but he was correct that readying her, stretching her, bringing her so close had helped. He was inside her and starting to move when she finally relaxed against the mattress and realized just how tense she had been.

Hermione had thought about sex before, needless to say, but the reality was more intense than she could have imagined. It felt like she was being completely stretched to the limit, but also— _filled._ There was an incomparable intimacy that she felt with Tom while he was holding her, gripping her hips, and _moving._ She began to approach her peak again.

Tom’s confident persona was also starting to crumble, she noticed. He was letting out strangled little gasps of his own with each motion, increasingly shallow and desperate. It was, to her, the most erotic thing she could have imagined, seeing this confident, important man, this talented mage, elite of his country, brought to this because of _her._ It made her feel powerful—

With that thought, and with a sudden abrupt and very deep thrust from him, she tumbled over the edge. A loud, vocal gasp escaped her mouth as the wave of pleasure struck and rippled over her body. Tom shoved her down hard into the mattress, so hard she thought he might push her through it, as he had his own release. He closed his eyes in a strangely vulnerable way, breathing sharp little intakes of breath as he rode it out, collapsing on top of her, his rock-hard grip and pressure lifting.

In a little while, he rolled off her to one side. He took a very deep breath and let it out, then reached for her right hand in an oddly courtly but endearing gesture. “How was it, dear? Are you all right?”

She marveled at the fact that he could so instantly return to the polite, courteous gentleman she had come to like and then care very much about. “It was wonderful,” she confessed, “and I _feel_ wonderful.”

“I’m glad.” He smirked again— _there_ was that other side, that confident, cocky side she had seen, the Tom who intimated that he would want to do much more than this in the future. Hermione found herself already anticipating it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they're going to get kinkier than this. I intend this to be a definite Dom/sub relationship once her comfort level is there.
> 
> Regarding the rest of the chapter, I’ve got this odd fascination with Anders, for some reason (as you have undoubtedly figured out by now if you subscribe to my user account). I want to say, there is _not_ going to be a love triangle. That goes against my intention, expressed in _Serpentine Moves_ , never to have Tom or Hermione cheat on each other. Instead I had the brain wave of pairing him with the minor character Grace (who is not so minor in this AU)—and instantly fell in love with it, because of all kinds of plot reasons that will be clear later.
> 
> If you played the game, you know this, but not everyone reading this has, so for those readers, I'll say that Emma is lying her ass off about the actual reason why she doesn't want Hermione to even write Anders' name in a letter to a Grey Warden. ...Well, maybe not quite that extreme; there is a shadow of truth in her explanation, but most of it is severely distorted at best, and she's omitting a very crucial detail as well.
> 
> Next chapter—Harry at long last!


	7. An Old Friend Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need to increase the frequency of updates for this story. The two-week schedule is harder to hold to than a one-week one would've been, curiously enough! I can't guarantee a post on the same day of the week every week, but I'm going to start posting more regularly.
> 
> I've been struggling, specifically, with an issue about how to handle the game canon content. Since it's not Hawke's story, I'm skipping over a _lot_ of game quests that won't get mentioned at all. However, there are a few events in the game that will play a role in the plot of this story, either as they are or with some AU variation. When it's AU, I will definitely make it clear what got changed from the game content. However, I like original plots. I just... don't do retellings of existing stories very well. That is a slog, more of a "report" rather than storytelling for me, and this story does have an original plot that is imposed on top of (some canon, some AU) game events. The problem is that I think there are several readers whose awareness of the game's plot is limited to what I show in this story, and that means I'm restricted in what I can actually cut out and still leave this fic comprehensible. It's less than I'd hoped, frankly, and that's what's slowing this down. It's a balance and I'm still finding it. I can't wait to get Tom and Hermione to Tevinter, because then it can go hardcore into the original plot.
> 
> There is a NSFW scene in this chapter! They're not wasting any time ramping up the kink, either!

Tom was awake already when Hermione roused herself from her wanderings in the Fade. He had pulled his nighttime robe back on and was reading a book, several layers of pillows propped up behind him to support his back. As she stretched and fully awakened, she remembered what had happened last night. It must have shown in her face, because he gave her a smug, knowing grin the moment that the realization hit her.

“Erm…” she began, pulling the sheets up to cover herself. _Her_ bedclothes were on the floor.

“Don’t tell me you’re being modest _now._ A bit late for that, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

“Oh?” she rejoined at once. “Then why did you put _yours_ on?”

“I can take it off if you’d prefer.”

Her face flushed. Feeling bold, she playfully slapped at him. He grabbed her wrist but held it gently, gazing at her. The cocky expression on his face changed, softening to an expression of tenderness and a certain degree of awe, as if he could not quite believe she was really there.

She did not quite want to break the moment, but she had no choice. Smiling back at him with that same tender gaze, she gently pulled her hand away. “What are you reading?” She moved closer to get a look at the book. “ _A Compendium of Specialized Spells for the Human Body_ ,” she read. Shaking her head, she drew away, swung her feet off the bedside, and reached for her robe. “You intend to become an expert at healing too, so I’ll learn it from you instead?”

He chuckled. “That’s _not_ what this book is about.” He showed her an illustration on the page he was reading.

Hermione’s eyes widened and her face grew even hotter at the woodcut before her. “Maker,” she muttered, trying to get a closer look at it. “I wouldn’t have thought… ice? There? It seems so unappealing until I actually _consider_ that….”

Tom smirked and closed the book. “Exactly. This is one of the things I meant last night.”

Hermione suddenly realized that the spell she had just seen illustrated would one day be used on her, if she wanted it—and now that the idea was in her mind, she very much did want it.

But not right this second. Her stomach was beginning to rumble.

* * *

Later that day, a courier arrived at the mansion with a letter for Hermione. Her eyes widened as she observed the wax seal, an emblem of griffons.

“It’s from Harry!” she exclaimed as she popped the seal and tore into the letter eagerly, Tom standing by to watch in tolerant amusement.

 

_Hermione,_

_Where to begin? First, thank you for the very thorough letter you sent me recently. I am thrilled that you escaped Meredith Stannard’s clutches and, at the same time, appalled that she is now so corrupted and blind as to turn her back on rape. Hopefully the templars who were killed during your escape were the only ones involved in that. That Circle needs serious external oversight. Where in the Maker’s name, pun intended, is the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, who has authority over Meredith? She should be told about this if she hasn’t already. This is an outrage. She should have a full investigation into that Circle to see if there are any others like that “Ser” Alrik, and Meredith should be removed and disgraced. I will advise Emma to talk to her about this. _I think she is the proper person, since she’s not a mage herself, just a dagger-wielding fighter who restored her family’s fortunes and estate._ That magister of yours would be intimidating, no doubt about it, but I think that involving Tevinter dignitaries in this would be a mistake for political reasons._

_Now, about that magister._

_I confess I read what you wrote about him with some trepidation. Are you implying that he practices blood magic, but that you’ve become accepting of this? I don’t want to step in your business, Hermione, but… be careful how far down that path you tread, and please be sure that you are adjusting your long-held morals for the right reasons, and not just because you like him._

_That said, I am glad that he is a gentleman to you and I look forward to meeting him, which I think may happen soon._

_Yes, that’s right—the Warden-Commander is going to give us leave in about four days (from the date of this letter) and I am going to use mine to visit Kirkwall. I regret to say that the Grey Warden mission I was on, searching for a runaway Warden for our Fereldan comrades, was not successful, but at least we weren’t searching for darkspawn! I’m glad you like Emma and her friends; they’re great people. I can hardly wait to see all of you._

_Best,_

_Harry_

 

Hermione quickly folded the letter before Tom could come over and try to read over her shoulder. She did not know what to think about Harry’s remarks about Tom. She supposed he was right that she should make sure she changed her views for proper reasons, but… it seemed condescending for him to question if she was instead being influenced by romantic concerns.

As she closed the letter, she noticed the date at the top of it: four days ago.

“He’s going to be in Kirkwall today!” she explained to Tom, who was walking over. “My friend.” She smiled. “He wants to meet you.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “So there’s a male I have to justify myself to, and convince, after all.”

Exasperated, Hermione gave him a playful push. “It’s not like that. But do try to make a good impression for him. He is my friend.”

“If there’s one thing—other than magic—that I know how to do, it’s make a good impression.” He peered at her, dark meaning in his eyes. “But I hope you’ll agree that I know how to do much more than that?” His words were low, almost whispered.

“I was impressed so far. We shall see,” she replied, smirking.

* * *

Hermione was completely unsurprised when Emma Hawke herself came to the mansion later that day, grinning from ear to ear. “Guess what just happened?” she sang.

Hermione decided to let the other young woman have her surprise. “I can’t imagine!”

Hawke took Hermione’s hands and clasped them. “Someone we both like is here!”

“Harry?” she said, forcing her eyes open wide.

Emma suddenly paused, regarding Hermione curiously. A sly grin formed on her face. “You knew already,” she said astutely. “He must’ve written to you.”

Caught, Hermione burst into a smirk.

“It was a good effort,” Emma said loftily. “Oh—Magister. Good evening to you.”

Hermione craned her head. Sure enough, Tom had emerged and was stepping up behind her. He returned Hawke’s greeting.

“Since Harry is in town, I have booked one of the upstairs rooms at the Hanged Man,” Emma continued. “Just for us. Everyone will be there… well, everyone minus one,” she muttered, “and I came here to invite the two of you as well!”

“I’m certainly going!” Hermione exclaimed.

Emma raised her eyebrows at Tom. “And you, serah?”

“Who is not going?” Tom inquired, sidestepping her invitation.

“Oh… I doubt you would know my friends… except Merrill.”

“It’s Anders, isn’t it?” Hermione said. Emma grimaced, which was confirmation enough.

Tom snorted. “I do know that one. We’ve… met. What’s his problem, anyway?”

“He doesn’t like anyone who is a Grey Warden,” Hermione said, “because of something that happened involving a detachment of them.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “There are sound reasons to disapprove of the Grey Wardens, but I doubt his is one of them.”

“Are you going to the pub tonight, Magister?” Hawke persisted, not liking this turn of conversation.

Tom considered. “I appreciate the invitation, Mistress Hawke, but I have business here. I wouldn’t want to intrude on your reunion, in any case.” He turned to Hermione. “Be careful.”

“She’s with us,” said Emma.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” muttered Tom as he turned away.

* * *

“Why didn’t he want to come?” Emma asked Hermione as they headed in the direction of Lowtown.

Hermione shrugged. “I assume it’s because he is a private person, and I don’t think he much cares for… well… rowdy events. I think he would just prefer to meet Harry in private. He doesn’t know most of your friends, and I think it would be uncomfortable for him all around.”

Emma seemed to accept this explanation. “I’m not like that, myself,” she confessed—

“So I observed!” Hermione teased.

“—but some people are. I just hope he doesn’t stay in his mansion for Harry’s entire visit. The Grey Wardens don’t give them leave very often.” She sighed as they passed into the working-class district of town. “I have to ask you again not to bring up… you-know-who.”

Hermione shook her head. This seemed so immature to her… but it wasn’t her decision to make, nor her grudge. “All right. I think it’s sad that he excludes himself from occasions that involve everybody else, but if that’s what he wants….”

“There’s… a bit more to it than what I’ve told you so far,” Emma said hesitantly. “Maybe some other time.”

“It’s that he’s jealous of Harry, isn’t it?” Hermione said.

Emma’s forehead furrowed. “Did he say that to you?” she finally asked.

“Not in so many words, but he basically confessed that he had wanted more with you than you could give him. This came up because he feels the same way about me. And meanwhile, his guard can’t keep her eyes off him! I did my best to point him in her direction.”

“That was very kind of you,” Emma said. “And… yes, I knew about it. How he felt about me. The thing is, before I met Harry, I had considered pursuing it—but he warned me off.”

 _“Warned_ you off?” Hermione said sharply.

“He is very… dedicated… to his cause of freedom for mages,” she said, “and he warned that this would come first.”

Hermione instantly detected an evasion. “Is that all? We all have issues that we care about. Typically that’s not a reason to _warn_ somebody else.”

“It’s… more than an issue he cares about, with him. It’s part of him.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Hermione was befuddled. “That’s a common phrase that people use, but the way you say it—it’s like you mean something else.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione—I just don’t think it’s my place to do this. You’re learning healing from him. You should ask him. If he considers you a friend, he’ll tell you if you ask.”

They had reached the Hanged Man. Hawke pushed the door open. “Now, let’s forget about moody vagrant mages who live in the sewers, and have some drinks with our mutual Grey Warden friend!”

The barkeep nodded to her as she entered the boisterous common room and pointed upstairs. She grinned, gave him a thumbs-up, and pulled Hermione along with her up the creaky steps. They entered a dim hallway with several closed doors, but Hermione thought she detected familiar voices from behind one of them….

Hawke stopped in front of that door, opened it, and pumped her fist in the air to greetings. Hermione craned her head and gazed into the room.

Sure enough, all of her friends but one were at the long table. Varric, Fenris, Merrill, Isabela, and a person whom Hermione had not met, a redhaired woman in full armor, were at the table. At the center, an empty chair next to him, sat a lean but fit young man with black hair, an infectious grin, and green eyes. He wore blue mage robes with a silver embroidered griffon pair emblazoned across the chest, the symbol of the Grey Warden Order. Isabela sat next to him on the other side, and she was getting close enough that Hermione fully expected Emma to have some sharp words about it….

“I don’t think we’ve met,” said the redhaired warrior in armor.

“Oh, you haven’t?” Emma said. “I thought… my mistake! You stay too busy, Aveline,” she teased. “This is Hermione Granger, Harry’s old friend from the Circle—and now mine as well! Hermione, this is Aveline Vallen, Captain of the Guard in this city.”

Hermione’s eyebrows flew up her forehead. “Friends in high places! I’m pleased to meet you, serah. I’m sure keeping this city in order _does_ keep you busy….”

“There are street gangs everywhere,” the woman muttered over a flagon of ale. “And then traitors in the Guard itself! That’s how I became Captain, rooting them out. It used to be much worse.”

“I’m glad there is someone in the post who cares about the well-being of the city,” Hermione said sincerely. She turned to Harry at last, unable to keep a goofy grin off her face.

“Hey, old friend,” he said. “Long time no see. Why don’t you have a seat? Sorry, Isabela.”

“You’re ordering me out of my chair? How rude.” Isabela pouted, but it was clear that the pirate woman did not mind too much. As Hawke sat down on the other side of Harry, Isabela took her place next to Hawke on her other side.

“You have no cause to complain,” Harry rejoined at Isabela. “All things considered….”

Isabela wiggled her eyebrows back. Between them, Emma raised hers. “Have you two set something up without me?”

Hermione was increasingly baffled by this conversation. Surely they were not implying what it sounded like they were….

“I didn’t think you’d mind, sweet thing,” Isabela crooned. “Or did you want him to yourself tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve already had him ‘to myself,’” Emma said, grinning lasciviously. “Took care of that as soon as he arrived.”

Harry smirked.

“Would one of you please explain—” Hermione began.

Varric Tethras, mercifully, put an end to this. “All three of them are going to go to bed together tonight, Bookworm.”

Hermione gaped at Harry, eyes wide, mouth open. Harry merely grinned back. “Grey Wardens have _legendary_ stamina,” he said.

Aveline shook her head. “Debauchery.”

“It doesn’t hurt anything,” Emma protested. “You’re satisfied with one person, but some people are different. This is safe and honest.”

Isabela gazed around the table. “You’re welcome to join too, Gorgeous,” she said to Fenris, who choked on his drink as she made eyes at him.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass,” the lyrium-tattooed elf drawled.

“Your loss,” Isabela crooned.

Hermione was still absolutely shocked. “Does this happen often?” she exclaimed. “Should I know about any _other…_ romantic arrangements among you lot? Or… I’m not sure romance is really what’s going on here,” she added dryly.

“No, we don’t all jump in bed together, or in combinations,” Isabela said. She made eyes at Fenris. “Except for this sexy elf and I when Hawke’s hot Warden is out of town.”

“You and I do not have a ‘relationship,’” Fenris said firmly. “Don’t mislead this mage.”

Harry gave Hermione a pleading look. “It’s what we all want, Hermione. Emma knows I’m committed to her whether Isabela joins us on occasion or not. So does Isabela. They’re fine with it. It just… spices things up.”

“Still, you have to remember, I was in the Circle until pretty recently. This seems really kinky to me!”

“Oh, I never said it wasn’t that,” he grinned.

“It’s… a lot to take in,” Hermione finally said.

Isabela winked. “Oh _yes,_ it _certainly_ is, but hopefully you have some experience in that now….”

Hermione blushed hotly, recalling the previous night.

“I’m confused,” said Merrill.

“Oh for the love of Andraste,” burst out Aveline, “are we really going to spend the entire evening talking about sex?”

Isabela shrugged. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“We’re not,” Harry said at once. He turned to Hermione. “You got my letter?”

“It arrived today,” she said, relieved at the change of subject.

“I meant what I said. Something has to be done about Meredith Stannard if she’s turning a blind eye to rape.”

Isabela scowled at Aveline. “Well, that’s a mood-killer. Is this preferable to you?” The Guard-Captain ignored her.

“I’m going to tell the Grand Cleric myself,” said Emma. “The Viscount is weak, and he’s got his hands full with that son of his, who wants to join the Qunari.”

“And that’s another thing,” Harry said with a scowl. “They shouldn’t be allowed to remain here indefinitely. Isn’t the actual leader of their government here?”

“The Arishok, yes; he’s one of their three leaders.”

“Their values are anathema to ours, and they don’t believe in ‘live and let live.’ Their governing philosophy has an order to convert, by force if necessary. Viscount Dumar is a fool to allow it,” he declared. “And by allowing this crisis to fester, he’s also allowing Meredith Stannard to usurp political power that should rightfully belong to him, but people don’t notice.”

“I’m going to tell the Grand Cleric about the Circle matter,” Emma repeated.

“The authorities need to learn _why_ the Arishok won’t accept any offers of passage back to their islands,” Fenris said. “They must have a reason for remaining here. We should find out what it is, because they won’t reveal it unless asked.”

Isabela suddenly looked deeply uncomfortable. “Can we talk about sex again?” she offered, her voice surprisingly weak.

Harry turned to Hermione. “I was hoping that your magister… what’s his name?”

“Thomas Riddle.”

“I was hoping he’d be here tonight.”

“He’s not one for boisterous scenes like this,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll be eager to meet you in a private, calm setting, though.”

“Well,” Harry said, _“obviously…_ as you know… I’m, ah, booked tonight.”

Emma and Isabela grinned and winked.

“But tomorrow looks good for me! What about you?”

“Tomorrow is great,” she confirmed. “I assume you’re staying with her. His house is really close.”

* * *

The revelry continued for another couple of hours before the more responsible members of the party—Varric, Aveline, and Fenris—began to leave. Merrill remained at the table until Varric rose, though she was not drinking much.

“Come on, Daisy,” he urged her. “These idiots are going to be stumbling back home. You excepted,” he said to Hermione, who was controlling her alcohol intake even as she chattered with Harry and the remaining women.

“Oh, Varric,” Emma drawled, “you’re just jealous.”

“It’s not too late to join us,” Isabela added.

“Not a one of you will be able to perform if you don’t stop,” the dwarf insisted, “but that’s not my problem. Bookworm, you might want to consider leaving this lot to learn the hard way.”

“Ooh, the hard way,” Isabela crooned to herself.

Varric shook his head in exasperation. “Come on, Daisy,” he said again to Merrill, who reluctantly walked with him down the stairs to the pub door.

As it happened, Hermione did not have to wait much longer after that for the remaining trio to have their fill. The room they had booked suddenly seemed almost empty, and with that, uninviting.

“I guess that’s it,” Harry finally said, pushing his flagon aside. He turned to Hermione. “Tomorrow, then?”

“We’re all walking back to Hightown together,” she reminded him with a smile, “so it’s not goodbye just yet. But—yes.”

They left the room, headed down the creaky stairs, and emerged into the night. As Hermione walked with them toward the wealthy district, she reflected on the evening.

 _It makes sense that Harry would want to spend time with Emma,_ she thought, _but this evening still bothers me in a way. I was his best friend in the Circle for years and years, and now it’s like I’m a complete outsider to his life. And, I don’t care what anyone else does in bed from a moral standpoint, but… the shock of that bothered me too. Do I even know Harry anymore? That’s what bothers me, that it seems so unlike my best friend. The Harry I knew would’ve been embarrassed to even hear of such a thing. This Harry not only intends to do it, but was boasting about his prowess. It’s like he just went into full rebellion once he escaped the Circle and was determined to do everything that had been forbidden to him.…_

It was difficult to accept, but perhaps the reality was that they had changed—or, at a minimum, he had changed, and since they had not seen each other for years, she was still trying to relate to him from their shared Circle days.

 _I should give him a chance,_ she chastised herself. _This is just the first night he’s back, and it wasn’t a great occasion to reconnect, since everyone was drinking and there was a large group. Once he meets Tom in a private, sedate environment, we’ll better understand each other as we now are, rather than what we were three years ago._

* * *

“Hermione,” Tom murmured as she stepped inside the house. He closed the door behind her and took both of her hands in both of his, pulling her close at once and resting his head on top of hers.

“Tom!” she exclaimed, startled by his immediate gestures of affection. She didn’t want to pull away, however, and a smile formed on her face. “I’ve only been gone a few hours.”

“Yes, but I’ve been… reading.”

Hermione instantly understood. Her face flushed at the memory of that book. _Well, why not?_ she thought. _Harry was so smug about my shocked reaction tonight. Maybe, later, I can get a shock out of him too._ “I was thinking about what you’ve been reading,” she said, surprised at how sultry her voice came out. “That ice thing… I’d like to see what that’s like.”

His dark eyebrows flew up his forehead, but instantly they settled to frame a knowing smirk. “Well,” he purred, “I would be pleased to show you.”

Although Hermione had not had too much to drink, the amount she did have seemed to be having an effect on her. As they headed toward the bedroom, arms linked, she felt her heart start to beat harder and a heated flush, exciting but not overpowering, suffuse her body.

“Take your robes off,” he barked suddenly.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re in a hurry, Tom—”

He gripped her shoulders and shoved her against the wall. His presence was _right there,_ those dark eyes boring into hers. “You are speaking to a magister. You would do well to remember that.”

Hermione’s mind reeled with confusion for a second, but only just a second. She couldn’t explain how, because she certainly hadn’t read anything about—the sort of thing Tom was clearly doing—but suddenly she understood. Perhaps it was a deep instinct within her.

“Of course, Magister,” she said, gazing down at the carpet.

He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face back up so that their eyes met. His were gleaming in enjoyment at her words. “That’s better. Now—off with them.” He gazed at the four-poster bed. “Leave your smallclothes. After that, get on the bed and wait at the foot.”

She obeyed at once, taking off her satiny robes and leaving them in a shimmering pile on a chair. Tom breathed deeply, watching her, as she climbed on the bed— _Maker, she has a beautiful body,_ he thought, unable to take his gaze off her soft skin in the magic-illuminated candlelight—and began, slowly, to strip off his robes as well as he approached her.

“Legs on the bed all the way,” he commanded. “Kneel.”

She brought her legs off the side of the bed and bent them under herself as she sat. She took a deep breath and gazed up at him as he loomed over her.

He placed his hands on her shoulders again, glaring at her. “Although you _are_ a mage yourself, acolyte, you still must serve any magister of the Imperium who… demands it. In whatever _way_ I demand it.”

A sudden surge of lust at his words filled her body, followed by a shocking thought as her brain processed them. _He’s roleplaying Ancient Tevinter,_ she realized with a small degree of alarm. That—seemed somehow wrong—but she instantly banished that unwelcome thought with the consideration that it _was_ just a game.

“You demand it… my lord?” she said, trying to keep up with him on instinct.

He visibly liked that. His smile curled into a smirk. “I do.” He trailed a single index finger down her arm. “Get ready,” he whispered, and with that, he was suddenly Tom again—but only for a moment.

In the next moment, icy, biting frost erupted from his fingertips, coating her shoulders. She bit her lip hard to muffle the scream that wanted to escape. The frost immediately began to melt and turn to rivulets of water, flowing down her arms and chest, dripping from her breasts.

Tom regarded his work with a smug grin, and in the next moment, he shoved her backward roughly. She fell onto the mattress on her back as he got on top of her, grabbing her wrists, holding them above her head with his left hand while he trailed cold fingers down her chest, her waist, the juncture where her legs met her hips—

A marble-sized ball of ice appeared at his fingertips, accompanied by another blast of frost. She gasped and automatically tried to bring her arms down, as a reflexive motion, but she found that she could not. He had used a force magic spell to hold them in place. With a wicked, wicked smile, he brought his left hand down her body too, trailing slowly down her chest with only a single fingertip touching her skin, tormenting her as it left a ghostly trail of white that instantly melted but still left her tingling from the sensation of cold.

He rolled the marble of ice torturously slowly down her pelvis until it reached her core, where the sensation was now almost intolerable—but wonderfully so. She hissed like a snake and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a swear.

Tom was pleased and met her gaze with his. “You’re _more_ than ready for me,” he murmured, rolling the rapidly melting ice against her sensitive pearl.

“I—like this,” she gasped, spreading her legs wide for him, wanting him to touch her, to _take_ her. And it was true—she did. It was an urge she’d never known she had, never even had cause to suspect—but somehow, that _he_ was able to bring out.

“I can tell.” The marble of ice melted at last, and he withdrew his fingers, much to her discontent—but that did not last long. He pulled off her wet smallclothes, tossed aside his own remaining clothing, and climbed on top of her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she uttered a throaty gasp.

A sharp, yet not painful, slap struck her cheek. She opened her eyes immediately and found him glaring at her. “You will look at me while I take you, acolyte,” he growled.

“Of course, T— _Magister,”_ she corrected herself.

He smirked and pushed forward. Unlike the previous night, this did not hurt in the least, not even for a second. Hermione again tried to move her arms, to grab his shoulders, to thread her fingers into his inky black hair, but to no avail. There was no release to be found that way. She could only shudder from his movements and shiver from the occasional dusting of frost he left on her waist, her breasts, the side of her neck.

When he withdrew—without either of them finished yet—and held her legs open so that she could not even clench her thighs together, she let out a sob. “Don’t do this,” she begged him. “This is torture—”

“You say that like a demand,” he snarled, fully in his role, enjoying this. _“You_ do not make demands of _me.”_

“Please,” she begged. “Please… Magister. Please.”

“Hmm… I suppose I can accept that.” He filled her again to the hilt.

They did not last long after that, Hermione breaking into a shuddering climax first, one that erupted with magical energy that actually broke the spell he had cast to bind her wrists above her head. He was visibly surprised at that; his dark eyes opened wide when her arms were freed, but apparently the demonstration of her innate magical power excited and pleased him, because in the next moment—the moment that she threaded her fingers into his hair—he came with a strangled gasp and collapsed on her, rubbing her sides and burying his head in the spot where her neck and left shoulder met, suddenly her own Tom again.

* * *

Once again, Hermione did not quite want to get out of bed the next morning, but she did not know exactly when Harry would visit. Better to be on the safe side. She quickly put on some of her nice new robes and awaited his arrival.

He did not show up until around midday. Hermione wondered if he had overindulged the night before, whether at the bar or… afterward… but she was not going to ask him outright in front of Tom. No need to risk embarrassing him. Perhaps later, she would tease him about his conduct on his first night back in Kirkwall.

He was shown into a tea room in the mansion and took his seat after Tom and Hermione. To his credit, his face bore neither smug pride nor shame.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said calmly to Tom after introductions, “and a good thing that you were there when it mattered most to Hermione.”

“I had Mage Underground business with a courier in Darktown that day. Usually my business does not require actually descending into the mines. It was fate, perhaps.”

Harry smiled thinly. “I’m glad you’re involved in the Mage Underground, but it’s a disgrace to the city that its work has become so crucial to the very safety and lives of mages. I’ve asked Hawke to get the Grand Cleric to investigate the Circle after what almost happened to Hermione.”

Tom scoffed. “I wish her luck, because she’ll need it. That woman is a weakling and a coward of the first order. She has the authority to sack that Knight-Commander, but she seems to think that she can’t do that while the Qunari crisis continues to simmer. That’s also partly her fault, of course.”

“How do you figure?” Harry said, an eyebrow raised. “I would place more blame for the Qunari situation at the Viscount’s feet.”

“So do I,” Tom agreed, “but she’s not blameless either. There have been reports of alienage elves and Fereldan refugees joining the Qunari because they think they have a better chance of a decent life with the oxmen than with Kirkwallers. I’ve seen no evidence that the Chantry here does a damned thing to help with poverty in those populations, so I suppose they _would_ think they’re better off with the Qunari, who’d at least give them a place and a purpose. The mages would probably try to join them too if not for the fact that the Qunari literally sew up the mouths of mages and keep them in chains their whole lives.” He glowered outward, past Harry, and Hermione recalled the fact that Tevinter and the Qunari were mortal enemies—for good reason. Tevinter was ruled by mages, and the Qunari treated them worse than any other group in Thedas did.

Hermione had not heard him speak about poverty before, and she was surprised—and warmed—to hear him express sympathy for the alienage elves. Perhaps he really had begun to change his prejudices about them after meeting Merrill and reading the memoir of Warden Tabris. But she was also startled, because she realized that he was correct. The Chantry offered charity for those who lived in poverty. She had heard about their Poor Fund—though that seemed a bit too mild a way to describe the self-righteous boasting of Meredith, as if she had anything to do with the priests’ decisions—but she realized, belatedly, that the description she’d read of the Poor Fund in the Circle only referred to “Kirkwall citizens of Lowtown.” That left out all the Fereldan refugees, those Kirkwallers who were so poor that they were consigned to Darktown, and most likely, the alienage elves. Although their neighborhood was part of Lowtown geographically, she knew all too well that human authorities considered it separate. And those who were forced to live in Darktown were presumed to be criminals, though most were not.

“She came to the Circle a few times,” Hermione spoke up, “and she always seemed like a genuinely kind, well-meaning person. I don’t think she is being negligent—of anything—out of malice. She’s probably afraid of making moves that wealthy benefactors would dislike.”

“That’s all the more reason why I hope Emma’s discussion with her goes well. The Hawke family is wealthy, and on the rise.” Harry eased the conversation back to the original topic. “I’m still glad that, for Hermione’s sake, you were there. And I’m happy that _she_ is happy with you.”

Tom seemed to regard that as the poorly disguised call for information about their relationship that it was. He peered back at Harry, eyes narrowing. “Yes,” he said abruptly. “Our… _personalities_ … are well-suited to each other.”

Hermione instantly knew that he was talking about their “personalities” in the bedroom, and she tried to prevent herself from flushing red. There was a pause in their conversation. When it became long enough that it was uncomfortable, Harry spoke again. “I know next to nothing about Tevinter politics,” he said. “Your… faction… in the Magisterium? I don’t know if that’s the proper term,” he added. “But I was curious about where you stood on various issues.”

Tom bristled at once, which Hermione noticed. She wondered why… unless he was just affronted that Harry, who was merely her friend, was asking him such a question. Yes, that must be it. This was the kind of question that her father, or mother, might have asked if they were still alive and were questioning him as a suitor.

“You can’t imagine that I am a major political player in the Imperium,” he said suavely. Hermione was impressed with the fact that he had managed to force this tone upon himself at once. “I am strongly in favor of aggressive measures in our ongoing war with the Qunari, of course. I support increased meritocracy and less fixation on altus bloodlines… even though my mother’s family was altus itself,” he couldn’t resist adding.

“Are you part of the new faction I’ve heard of that opposes slavery?” Harry pressed.

Caught, Tom glared back. “No, I am not.” Hermione looked askance at him, rather surprised at the hostility in his voice. He sighed. “It is easy for people in southern countries to hold the views you do. It’s very different in Tevinter. The magisters you speak of have rendered themselves irrelevant, a laughingstock in the Magisterium, due to their public stance on that.”

“Perhaps they wouldn’t be a laughingstock, as you put it,” Harry said coldly, “if there were more magisters with the courage to join them. Perhaps there are more people than you know who agree with them, because everyone’s too afraid to say so.”

Tom scoffed. “Don’t presume to lecture me about the calculations of magisters, Grey Warden. You’ve heard of the Grand Game of Orlais? Silly backstabbing and duplicity by masked Soporati nobles? What goes on in the Magisterium puts them to shame. I am ambitious, that I do not deny,” he continued, “and I’m wise enough to know that the deck is already stacked against me due to my age and my father’s background. So, no, I have not joined the faction you speak of.”

Harry regarded Tom icily. “I couldn’t sleep at night if I avoided taking a moral position against _slavery_ to advance my own ambitions.”

“Oh?” rejoined Tom. “You have made plenty of compromises to be part of the Grey Wardens, from the rumors I hear.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tom, Harry,” Hermione said at once. “Let’s settle down. Harry—did you see any slaves in this house? Tom cannot single-handedly abolish slavery in Tevinter, when it’s been practiced there for centuries.”

Harry gazed in disappointment at her. “I understand, Hermione. I didn’t mean to start a fight here.” He finished his tea and set down his cup. “I should get back to the Hawke estate. I am glad to have met you, Magister.” At once he rose from his seat.

Tom and Hermione followed him to the front door, and Hermione followed him outside even as Tom, a look of mild confusion on his face that quickly cleared, closed the door behind them. She was glad that he apparently understood what she was trying to do and did not involve himself in it. _I asked him to let me breathe, figuratively speaking, and perhaps he is,_ she thought.

“Harry,” she said, her tone mildly scolding.

He gazed back at her. “Hermione, I understand… I’m glad that you like him… but I have to confess, I don’t.”

She scowled. “You were too hard on him. He’s only six years older than we are, Harry. He hasn’t been a magister for long. It’s unreasonable to expect him to solve all the problems of the Imperium at once.”

“That’s not it. It’s… hard to explain, but there is something about him,” Harry said hesitantly. “I was taken aback at his hostile reaction to my questions.”

“You were _interrogating_ him.”

“I don’t think I was,” he objected. “I just—didn’t care for how he responded. It’s as if the questions I asked offended him.”

“I think it’s more likely that he was offended by the fact that you felt _entitled_ to ask him such things,” she said dryly. “He probably wonders what right you had to do so. You’re not my father.”

“Hmph. Well, obviously, you like him, and I can’t point to anything specific about him other than that—but if I were you, Hermione, I’d make him be absolutely clear as to the nature of the relationship you have with him.”

“Meaning what?”

“Are you his Kirkwall mistress?” Harry said bluntly. Hermione’s jaw dropped, but he continued before she could speak. “I’m not suggesting that he’s secretly married—”

“He _isn’t,”_ she said angrily. “Varric Tethras himself confirmed that, and as for the ‘nature of my relationship,’ this is none of _your_ business, but he told me himself that he’s only had one other partner, and it was deadly serious—on his side—but that he was burned. Varric also referenced _that,_ that his mixed bloodline means the other altus families turn up their noses at him. I assure you, he takes our relationship seriously!”

“Then he shouldn’t object to taking you to Minrathous someday.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“What exactly is he doing in Kirkwall right now, anyway?”

Hermione suddenly realized that she did not know. “He’s involved in the Mage Underground,” she bluffed, hoping that this was indeed his purpose. “Heavily. I for one am _glad_ that he’s taking an active role in helping his fellow mages in the south!” Sparks inadvertently flew from her hands.

“Easy,” Harry said, backing away. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Hermione. You’re my best friend. I think you’ve fallen hard for him—and it makes sense; he saved you and must have been very kind to you afterward—but you should push to be a part of whatever it is he does. If you want to.”

“Thank you for your advice,” she said coolly. “I am glad you’re concerned about me after all these years. But I think you’re worrying too much. I will certainly ask to go to Minrathous with him whenever he returns there, and I have _no_ doubt that he’ll take me along. I’m sure he’ll actually invite me himself. And I have _seen_ some of his documents about his work for mages in Kirkwall. There’s really nothing to worry about, as far as that’s concerned.”

Harry sighed. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t intend our reunion to be like this.”

She sighed too and gave him a hug. “We’re both different, Harry. I was thinking about that last night. We haven’t seen each other in three years. We’re still friends—but let’s be realistic that we have to get to know each other again. It’s normal.”

A pained expression came over his face, but he nodded. “You’re right.”

* * *

Hermione returned inside, feeling hollow and sad. Harry was her first friend, and he disliked Tom. She hoped that time would do away with that dislike and distrust, but how could it unless he saw much more of Tom than he was likely to, as a Grey Warden? An even sadder thought entered her mind. Whenever Tom did return to Minrathous, that would put a great physical distance between her and Harry. If she ended up establishing a life that was focused there, with Kirkwall only a “vacation city,” her friendship with Harry—with Emma and her friends, too—might subside into a common acquaintance. Her heart ached at the thought.

Tom sensed that she was feeling morose. He enveloped her in a loose embrace, which she returned.

“Tom,” she said at once, “I was wondering—when are you in Minrathous and when do you come here? If you have a set schedule?”

“You want to get away from this dung heap of a city? After the way your friend acted, I don’t much blame you.”

“Tom, don’t,” she pleaded. “Though—yes, someday I would like to get away from Kirkwall. The next time you go to Minrathous, I’d like to go with you.”

He froze for a second, but in the next moment, he nodded. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. I would like to have you there. As for when I am there… I come to Kirkwall in the summer, because summers in Tevinter are simply brutal. I am not usually here in the winter, of course, because winter is the season that’s brutal in the south. And whenever the Magisterium holds important votes, I need to be there, even in the subtropical heat.”

“I’ve heard about the weather in Tevinter,” she mused. “Do you really get struck by ferocious storms that come from the sea?”

“Sometimes. But we’ve developed magical means of protecting our homes from them, and if it’s a bad enough storm, a group of powerful elemental mages will actually cast spells to decrease its strength.”

“You can alter the _weather?”_

“If enough mages are doing it at once… yes. Yet another thing I presume they don’t want you to learn in the Circles here?” he snarked.

“But if you do it to protect your city, what’s wrong with that?”

His eyes gleamed in approval. “Exactly.” He took her hand and escorted her back into their parlor. “I am sorry that your Grey Warden friend took against me.”

“Tom, what did you mean about moral compromises that Grey Wardens make?”

He sat down in his chair, twined his fingers together, and stretched them in front of him. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“I don’t like secrets, Tom. Whatever it is, just tell me.”

“All right. What I’m about to tell you are Warden secrets, but I have a contact in the Magisterium who knows a Senior Warden of Tevinter. You shouldn’t tell anyone else, though. If it got back to the Grey Wardens that you—or I—knew their precious secrets, they’d conscript us into the order.”

“That seems harsh.”

“They are very secretive and very paranoid,” he said. “All right. First of all, becoming a Grey Warden is not just a matter of signing a roll book.”

“I understood that they were Tainted themselves, but that they did not become ghouls.”

“They’re Tainted, all right. They become Grey Wardens by drinking a potion that contains some portion of darkspawn blood—”

 _“Maker!”_ she swore, horrified.

He smiled darkly. “—some amount of lyrium, and a drop or two of Archdemon blood.”

Her jaw dropped. _“Archdemon_ blood? How? Archdemons only surface in Blights, which are usually centuries apart….”

“Magical preservation,” he said. “But, yes, that’s what makes a Warden a Warden. They are most definitely Tainted. And that’s not the worst of it.”

“Blood magic indeed,” she said, shuddering.

“Blood magic and Blight magic together,” he said, enjoying her horrified reaction. “And… you say they don’t become ghouls? They do. It just takes them a while.”

She felt sick all of a sudden. “What do you mean, it takes them a while?”

“They are working on the problem in Tevinter, trying to devise a solution… there have been isolated cases of mage Wardens, always blood mages, not having this happen to them, but yes, most Grey Wardens who aren’t slain in battle start to become ghouls after two or three decades. Their name for it is ‘the Calling.’”

“Oh, Maker… Harry….” Hermione wanted to vomit. This was Harry’s fate, unless he died prematurely in combat or some Warden found a cure.

He suddenly realized what she was thinking, and the twisted joy vanished from his face. “It may not happen to them for much longer,” he said, the sudden compassion and change of tone feeling odd to him, especially since the person she was worried for had been so set against him. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground, for your friend’s sake. Even though he _did_ dislike me.”

She gazed gratefully at him. “This is why I trust you,” she burst out. “I hope other people can see that someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Hermione.
> 
> I have assumed everyone knows this, but that may not be the case. The setting of Dragon Age is in the southern hemisphere of its world, so Tevinter, to the north, is subtropical, and the southern countries have cold winters.
> 
> I’d apologize for the “event” involving Isabela, but I’m not sorry in the slightest. Something about these games just brings out my inner kink.
> 
> Gamers: I’m not a fan of Sebastian, to say the least. Hawke may do odd jobs for him offscreen, but he will not be a companion in this story.
> 
> About the Grand Cleric bashing, the more I think about things in this game, the closer I get to a point of view that makes me very uncomfortable. I won’t elaborate on what it is, because there are readers of this fic who haven’t played the game and that would be a massive spoiler for them, but… in the game itself, killing the rapist templars is a short quest. After it’s over, Anders says he will tell the Grand Cleric about this. We don’t know for sure that he does; it’s never brought up again, but if he does, literally nothing comes of it, and _something_ should’ve. At best, the existence of such a despicable plot indicates that Meredith doesn’t have control over her own templars, and at worst, it makes her one of the lowest forms of life, a woman who protects sexual predators for her own selfish reasons. In any case, Meredith _gains_ power—over the _mages_ —in the years following that game quest, presumably because Grand Cleric Elthina is too weak to check her (in fairness, there’s no evidence that she shares Meredith’s zealotry). Additionally, although I’ve made up the Poor Fund and its deliberate exclusion of so many groups, there really _isn’t_ any evidence that the Chantry did anything substantial to help the refugees or the elves, and there _were_ problems with them turning to street crime and joining the Qunari.
> 
> Because of all this, I’ve come around to the viewpoint that Grand Cleric Elthina is part of the problem with Kirkwall (and the Circle) and needed to go. I’m _not_ of the view that she needed to go the way she did in-game, though. That’d be the POV that’s uncomfortable. So there’s that.


	8. Gains and Losses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry again for the wait for the chapter, and for its comparative shortness. Given what the bulk of the content is, it seemed inappropriate to have another sex scene.

Unfortunately, the tension that had developed between Harry and Hermione did not heal over the course of his visit to Kirkwall. He didn’t like Tom, didn’t trust him, and now that Hermione—and Tom himself—knew that, a barrier existed between them. Harry spent most of his time with Emma and her friends.

During one of the few private visits between the two friends that _had_ taken place, Hermione had inquired briefly about Emma’s mage sister, Bethany, who had joined the Grey Wardens with Harry— _by_ Harry—but he had shaken his head sadly.

“Emma has convinced herself that her sister enjoys being a Warden a lot more than she actually does,” he said, pained. “Don’t tell her I said this, Hermione—but she deeply resents her sister for taking her to the Deep Roads in the first place, and had no wish to see her.”

That seemed profoundly sad to Hermione, even sadder than Anders’ determination to have nothing to do with Harry because of his animosity toward the Grey Wardens. “Did Emma force her to go against her wishes?” she finally asked Harry.

“I wasn’t there, of course,” he said. “She says she didn’t, as far as she knew. She says that her mother pleaded with her _not_ to ‘let’ Bethany go, and that in response to that, Bethany basically said she was perfectly capable. I think Emma took that as a request to go, when it was actually just a defense of her own pride.”

It sounded like it to Hermione as well. “That would’ve been a no-win situation for Bethany even if she told her sister outright that she didn’t want to go. She had to go to save face, even though she didn’t want to. It sounds as if the person Bethany should be angry at is their mother, for saying that and making a baby of her.”

“And she probably is,” Harry agreed.

“I don’t know Mistress Hawke well enough to have an opinion of her,” Hermione ventured. “What do you think of her?”

Harry whistled. “She… means well, I think, but she’s not a very good parent, in my opinion. Of course, my opinion may be rubbish, since I have no memory of my own parents!” he chuckled. “But every time I see her, I see an indecisive person with unrealistic ideas and a cruel streak that she can’t see or won’t acknowledge if she does. Can’t see, I hope, but that’s bad enough. You know, I suppose, that Emma used to have a brother?”

Hermione remembered that from the very first time she had met Hawke. She nodded.

“He seems to have been Mistress Hawke’s favorite child. I know parents aren’t supposed to pick favorites, but most of them do whether they admit it or not—at least, that’s my own observation—and he was hers. Emma was her father’s, who has been dead for about six years. Even she could see that; she’s told me. I think Bethany also resents that she was never anyone’s favorite, especially her dad’s, since she is a mage and he was too. Anyway, this brother, Bethany’s twin, was killed by the darkspawn when they left Ferelden, and guess what Mistress Hawke said to Emma after it happened?”

Hermione shook her head, a bad feeling suddenly in her stomach. “Surely she didn’t….”

“Oh, she did,” Harry confirmed. “She blamed Emma for not saving him.”

“That’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard of a parent saying,” she burst out. “Right after her brother died? How could she?”

“They were all in shock, I suppose,” he said, sighing. “Also, she had to take over managing the household after her father died, and I understand from Emma that her mother was usually dissatisfied, or at least acted so—that she did that to her father too, when he was still alive, but that he took it in stride better. And now, she’s the last one who still lives with her mother, in that big house. I think the relationship is better, but the remaining Hawkes… are not on very intimate terms with each other anymore. If they ever were. It’s sad.”

“That really is sad,” Hermione exclaimed. “If I had a family, I wouldn’t do that. I’d appreciate it. So Mistress Hawke has alienated both of her remaining children and yet one of them blames the other for that instead. That’s cruel, whether she means it to be or not.”

“She doesn’t mean it to be,” Harry said at once. “Of that I’m sure. But she’s pretty thoughtless and inconsiderate. That’s why Emma values her friends so highly, you know. They have become her family to her.” He smiled sadly. “I just hope she can reconcile with her mother someday.”

* * *

With Harry spending so much time with Emma and her friends, Hermione found herself pulled in three directions, one for each of the three male mages who—for different reasons—mattered in her life right now.

She knew that Harry was not going to be in town long; Emma herself had said that the Grey Wardens did not grant very much leave, and she knew that she should take advantage of the time she had while she had it, even if her reunion with her old friend had been something of a disappointment. However, it was tough to be at the table with him, whether at the Hawke estate or the Hanged Man, and be just another friend among several. She had known Harry for _years._ She had been his best friend in the Circle, the two of them against the world—well, against the Knight-Commander, who certainly had loomed large enough above the mages to _be_ their world, holding the dual threats of death and Tranquility. It was positively painful now for Hermione to be demoted to just another person at the table, watching as not just Emma, but quite often, _Isabela_ cozied up to Harry, one woman on each side of him. They had never openly said so after that first night that he was back in Kirkwall, but Hermione strongly suspected that the three of them went to bed together more than just that once.

As soon as _that_ thought crossed Hermione’s mind, she realized that it sounded even to her own mind like jealousy, and she knew it was not so, not really. As soon as she had learned of Emma’s relationship with Harry, she had accepted it. Her own romantic interest in him from years ago was long over, and she was excited about her new relationship with Tom. But _Isabela?_ That was an entirely different matter, and Hermione realized that she rather resented it. She didn’t want to join—or replace—them, but she resented it. Her friendship was valuable to him, she knew, but she still had to watch as this gap between them opened up over Tom, while the pirate woman joined him and Emma on numerous occasions. She didn’t feel the slightest resentment of Emma, but she did feel as though she was being replaced with Isabela as the second-most-important woman in Harry’s life due to the pirate’s sexual prowess, and that hurt.

The second direction toward which she felt pulled was, of course, toward Tom. As a matter of fact, Harry’s antipathy for Tom made her want to draw nearer to him. _If Harry is going to demote me to number three, at best, then he can’t complain about who becomes my number one,_ she thought mutinously. Then, too, Harry was being unfair to Tom in her reckoning. Maker’s Breath, he was only twenty-six! He could hardly change everything bad that the Tevinter Imperium, which had existed for two millennia, did within his first year as a magister! And it wasn’t as if southern Thedas had a clean record, she thought. The Orlesians had practically committed genocide in Ferelden during their occupation merely thirty years ago, their methods had been so brutal. And in their very own city of Kirkwall, mass poverty reigned, and an _invasion force_ occupied part of the city! If one looked at it the right way, Hermione thought, Tevinter was preventing the Qunari from conquering all of the south, with their war.

That said, Hermione _did_ want to see Tom’s house and way of life in Minrathous. He should take her there when he returned. _And he said he would,_ she thought happily.

The final direction she felt herself being pulled was toward Darktown. After the third evening of cards and drinks with Emma, Harry, and all of their friends except Anders, Hermione felt bad and decided to pay the healer a visit. She might consider his behavior immature, but that was no reason to ostracize him herself. He would probably like a visit, especially since she had the distinct impression that the only people in that group who voluntarily visited him were Emma herself, Isabela, and _perhaps_ Varric—and the two women were always occupied with Harry now. She didn’t know how close the dwarf was to the healer, but it was safe to assume that he might enjoy some company, just to know that _somebody_ in the group remembered him and chose to visit him over the rest of them, however briefly. She remembered, too, that she meant to ask him what was the rest of the reason that Emma had hinted at as to why he didn’t want to meet with Harry, and what it had to do with his cause of mage rights.

After Harry had been in town for about a week, and the situation had not changed, she resolved to do exactly that. Perhaps he would be interested to hear about Crookshanks, she thought with a grin as she petted said cat.

She gathered up what she needed and, leaving a note for Tom, headed to Darktown—the long way, this time, since the Hawke basement was temporarily off-limits for Harry’s visit.

* * *

She pushed the creaky doors to the clinic open, noting that it seemed unusually difficult, and immediately noticed that the place was empty—no patients, no guard, and no healer. That alarmed her. _If he and Grace have been arrested and taken to the Circle—or worse—then Emma will wish she’d kept a closer eye on him,_ she thought in concern, but only for a second. In the next, Grace darted out of a back room, staff in one hand and a greenish glow in the other. She breathed a sigh of relief, ended the spell prematurely, and mounted her staff on her back once again as she recognized Hermione.

“We weren’t expecting any visitors,” she said. “The door was locked, wasn’t it?”

Hermione shook her head. “It was harder than usual to open the doors, but no lock that I could see. If it’s a bad time—”

Anders emerged from the back room, glowering. “They weren’t locked? They were supposed to be….” He walked over to the doors and examined them, cursing as he discovered that the lock was rusted to pieces.

“Erm… this seems to be a bad time,” Hermione said again. “I only wanted to visit, but I think I should go….” As the healer turned around, she noticed that he and Grace now wore the same attenuated, unrealistic hand-and-compass-rose symbol as a little badge on their robes.

“Ah,” he remarked, seeing what she was looking at. “You recognize what that is?” He seemed a bit concerned at that prospect.

“Tom told me that it represented a militant faction of the Mage Underground.”

He nodded. “Grace and I are both part of it. In fact….” He closed the door tightly. “It’s a fine time for a visit, Hermione. Let’s talk.”

That seemed vaguely ominous to her, and suddenly she was not sure if she wanted to talk, but she followed him and Grace into the back room, behind another door that he closed. He picked up a large sheet of parchment that was spread across a desk, rolled it into a scroll, and put it away, but not before Hermione was able to identify it as a map of Kirkwall.

“What’s up?” she asked, trying to sound lighthearted. “That was a map of the city.”

“Grace and I are investigating the rumor you mentioned that the problems with some mages in the city are due to ancient mass sacrifice and Tevinter blood magic in the days of the old Imperium, leaving the Veil thin,” he said. “We’ve been marking all the places where… incidents… occur. Also, Hawke has been finding ancient documents here and there. Of course, she doesn’t fully understand what they mean,” he said with a hint of disdain in his words that rather surprised Hermione. Weren’t he and Emma friends? If he resented being left out of the revelries with Harry, that was his own choice… wasn’t it?

She chose not to comment on his personal life. “Have you noticed a significant arcane pattern, then? Does the rumor look to be real?”

He sighed. “It could be. I hope it’s not, because if it is… well, there are no good solutions. But I mentioned _these_ people when you first came in,” he said, fingering the hand badge again.

“Yes,” she said, taking a seat across from them. She noticed with pleasure that he and Grace joined hands on the tabletop, just as she had hoped would happen.

Evidently her smile gave her away. He patted Grace’s hand with his free one, grinning knowingly back at Hermione. “Hermione,” he said, “does the name ‘Resolutionists’ mean anything to you?”

She tried to think if she had heard it in the context of a mage-oriented group before. “I don’t think so. Should it?”

“I was just wondering. There are… stories… about the Resolutionists, which I should say right now are utterly untrue for the Kirkwall branch as it currently is. That’s the name of the group, and it’s really just another fraternity—you had those in the Kirkwall Circle, right? Meredith hadn’t forbidden them?”

Hermione nodded. “I was an Aequitarian at first. Then….” She trailed off, her face turning sour. “In Kirkwall, they seemed to be turning a blind eye to what was going on. I couldn’t stand it any longer. But I didn’t formally join the Isolationists or the Libertarians….”

“The bitch probably would have made you Tranquil if you had,” Grace put in. “Anders says that she has been using fraternity membership to target the Libertarians for that.”

Hermione glowered at the tabletop in anger.

“We’re spiriting them out of there,” the healer said hurriedly, “and they’re onto her. They’ve stopped calling themselves that, stopped self-identifying for their own safety. But we Resolutionists are another fraternity, just… one composed of apostates. And it’s quite true that we’re ‘militant,’ as your magister said….”

“He said you didn’t mind fights with zealot Templars.”

“We don’t mind fights with _anyone_ who wants to hurt mages,” he said harshly. “The reason I asked if you’d heard anything specific is that… the Resolutionists _did_ have a presence in Kirkwall a couple of years ago. Grace, unfortunately, was involved peripherally in it by a leader, now deceased, who led them astray. A plot to try to force demons to possess Templars to show that they were vulnerable too, to attack the order. Hawke and I were among the group to put an end to that.”

Hermione stared at him. “Demons can possess Templars?”

Anders burst into a dark smile. “That’s a little secret they don’t want you to know. _Anyone_ who can enter the Fade can be possessed, not just mages. But yes, that’s what the first version of the Resolutionists in Kirkwall did. There was disagreement in the ranks about the plot, Grace of course, but also some others. We’ve reorganized.”

“And you are the new leader?”

“Of the Kirkwall branch. And….” He hesitated. “I wish you wouldn’t tell that to Hawke. She wouldn’t understand, after breaking up the original gang.”

Hermione wanted to promise that to him, but something about this situation bothered her. “You are implying that the ‘Kirkwall branch’ is different from the other branches in other cities somehow. What do they do?”

He stared down at the table. “They are violent. And I don’t mean defensively so. _We_ don’t do that, though,” he said at once. “Not anymore. Not since I took over the remnant that had been opposed to the possession plot. We defend mages, by force if necessary, but we don’t _initiate_ violence.” When Hermione did not immediately promise to keep this from Hawke, his voice became pleading and desperate. “Hermione, people say false things about _mages_ as a whole. You don’t believe those kinds of comments apply to all mages! Please, you know me—I’m a healer—I don’t run this organization that way.”

“Then why keep it a secret from Emma?” she said quietly.

“She’s sensitive,” he replied. “That was the last outing she had with her sister before the Deep Roads. It really troubled Bethany to see mages doing things like that, and after that, the relationship between them soured because of what happened in the Deep Roads.”

Hermione sighed. “All right. I’ll let you tell her in your own time and way. But you _should,_ you know.”

“When the time is right, I’m sure I will. Right now we are just the first line of defense for mages that are escaping, and we’re also trying to find out why there seems to be a problem in the city with mages turning bad.”

Hermione digested this. “Tom said that he may have done business with them. I don’t see how that could be, though, since he had never met you until… that day.”

“I use a code name. I expect he does too. We do have some Tevinter support, but it’s very private.”

Suddenly Hermione remembered the letter she had seen in Tom’s study a while back. _Voldemort,_ she thought, recalling the Orlesian code name Tom used. She wondered… she really wondered… she would have to ask him later… but it wouldn’t do to blurt out that name to Anders in case it _wasn’t_ one he used for this.

The other purpose for her visit returned to her mind. “Oh, there was one thing in particular,” she said. “Emma told me why you avoid Harry. She also said there was a bit more to it than resentment of the Grey Wardens, and that it had something to do with your cause.”

He froze for a moment, then relaxed. “The Grey Wardens wouldn’t accept me as a recruit because of my magical specialization,” he said smoothly.

“Healing? But that makes no sense. They’re a military order; healing would be useful.”

“It’s because I am actually a Spirit Healer.”

Hermione sat back in her chair, considering that. Spirit Healing was risky. It required a mage to draw additional magical power from a spirit of the Fade, a benevolent one to be sure, but nonetheless a spirit. Spirit Healers were at higher risk—compared to other mages—of being possessed, and perhaps the Grey Wardens _wouldn’t_ want anything to do with that. But….

“What does that have to do with mage rights?”

“The, ah, specific one who assists me also offers assistance with the cause.”

“What kind of—”

“A spirit of Justice. It’s a good fit.”

Hermione regarded him warily. “As you say. I’d rather stick with learning ordinary healing, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not for everyone.”

* * *

Hermione had just returned home to a Tom who seemed vaguely disgruntled that she had visited the Darktown healer again.

“I _told_ you I’m not interested in him,” she exclaimed in mild exasperation, leaning into him on the sofa. “And good news—he’s with the mage guard now.”

Tom seemed mollified by that. “Good. I trust you, and if I believed that he would actually try to touch you without your permission, he’d be a bloodied pile of feathers on the ground. But I don’t like to think of anyone else even having thoughts about you that are… like the ones I have.”

Hermione laughed. “I understand that, but you can’t stop _that.”_

He smirked. “Actually, I can… but all right, you know what I am alluding to, and I suppose I won’t do it,” he finished as she cast him a dark glare at his reference to using blood magic to direct people’s thoughts. “Hopefully he’ll keep his eyes off you now that he is with that woman.”

“He did for this visit. Tom, I just wanted to be nice. No one else from his usual circle is spending any time with him, that I can see, while Harry is in Kirkwall.”

“Hmph. That doesn’t make it _your_ duty… but all right, I won’t needle you. How is the miscreant otherwise?”

Hermione explained to Tom about the Resolutionists, frowning in concern as she did. “You said that you might have dealt with them before,” she said. “Did you mean… the violent branches in other cities? Or just Kirkwall?”

Tom leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing. “To my knowledge, just Kirkwall. This makes me want to meet feather-brain again, though….” He smirked at the look on her face. “All right, I’ll stop calling him names. I should meet with him and compare account books to make sure. The faction of the Magisterium to which I belong supports the southern mages, but it’s all very covert of course, and it would be… unfortunate… if it turned out that we were funneling coin to violent extremists.”

She gazed at him with a grin on her face. “Do you use the name ‘Voldemort’ with them?”

He glowered back. “You won’t let that go, will you?”

“It’s so amusing to me that you use an Orlesian name, that’s all.”

He chuckled. “Yes, I use it with them. And… now that you mention it… you remember that letter, of course.” He reached down and scratched Crookshanks, who was curled up around his ankles. “You said the fellow made an odd comment about how cats used to like him. I’ll bet anything that _he_ is ‘Darktown Cat.’”

Hermione squealed in laughter. “He is! I’m sure of it now that you lay it out like that! Well, there you are, then,” she said. “You should be on better terms, because you’ve worked together without even knowing it!”

Tom drew his hand away from Crookshanks, who leaped into Hermione’s lap. “And the purse strings are an excellent way to keep him in line.”

Hermione shook her head in mild exasperation, but only mild. If she had to drift away from Harry, she was determined to get her lover and another of her friends on better terms. This revelation was good news, she was sure.

* * *

It was late when a messenger appeared at the door for Hermione, a grim-faced dwarf who introduced himself as Bodahn. “Hawke sent for you,” he said in a low voice. He gazed at Tom. “No offense, but….”

“But she didn’t send for me,” he finished. “I understand. She’s closer to Hermione.”

“What’s the matter?” Hermione asked the dwarf. “Is everything all right?”

Bodahn shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s her mother.…”

Hermione suddenly remembered her discussion with Harry about Emma’s strained relationship with her mother. She hoped nothing too awful had happened. “Is Mistress Hawke unwell?” If she needed healing, then Anders should suck it up and do his job, she thought.

The dwarf sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “She’s gone.”

“You mean….”

“She died tonight. And… the circumstances were pretty bad,” he said as Hermione’s face fell, her eyes widening in shock and dismay. “Look, I’ll tell you so she doesn’t have to. She was abducted and murdered by a blood mage… a serial killer who’s been operating in Kirkwall for years, targeting women.”

Tom was stricken at the words “blood mage.” Suddenly Hermione realized why Emma had not wanted him there.

“She tried to save her mum in time, but it was too late,” Bodahn continued. “The killer was… sick in the head. Twisted. Apparently he thought her face resembled the face of his own dead wife, and… tried to… recreate something that looked like her body.”

Hermione was utterly appalled, and Tom’s face curdled in disgust as well. “Most mages who use their blood _don’t_ do such things,” he said.

The dwarf eyed him. “I rather doubt Hawke wants to hear a defense of blood magic right now, Magister,” he said coolly. He turned back to Hermione. “She’s got her man with her….”

“Harry.”

Bodahn nodded. “Him, Varric, and Fenris. They tracked down the killer and gave him what he deserved, but….”

Hermione gathered up her cloak and pulled it over her shoulders. “Of course I’ll see her,” she said. “I’d say I can’t imagine… but I can. Somewhat. I saw my parents die, though it wasn’t like _that.”_

“That’s probably why she sent for you. Come.”

Dread pooled in Hermione’s stomach as she left Tom’s mansion. This was going to be difficult, and nothing could make it easier, but she knew it had to be done nonetheless. She followed the dwarf outside and down the street to the Hawke estate. He opened the door and held it for her, then led her upstairs to Emma’s bedroom. The door was open a crack, but she pushed it open just enough to slip through.

Emma was seated on her bed, hunched over, sobbing into her hands. Harry had an arm around her on one side, Varric Tethras on the other, and Fenris sat to the other side of Varric, gazing on her compassionately. Hermione took a seat next to Harry as Emma looked up through teary eyes.

“You came,” she choked out.

“Of course I came,” Hermione said gently, taking her hands across Harry’s lap. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Emma squeezed Hermione’s hands, then released them to cry some more. “Bethany,” she said. “Mother… never saw Bethany again after she walked out the door of Uncle Gamlen’s house to go to the Deep Roads with me.” She wiped her eyes. “We _told_ her that she was a Grey Warden— _Harry_ told her—but I’m not sure she ever really believed that Bethany was still alive. I think she always suspected we were telling her a comforting lie.”

“Oh, I’m sure not,” Hermione said at once.

Emma sighed heavily, shuddering from her own sobs. “I guess I won’t ever know now. But how am I going to tell my sister about this?”

“I can tell her,” Harry offered.

Emma shook her head. “It’s my duty, not yours. For once in my Maker-forsaken life, I’ll have to do my duty to my family. What’s left of it.” She wiped her face again. “I couldn’t save my brother… I couldn’t save my mum… I don’t suppose I could have done anything for my father, but….”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Hermione said gently.

“I should have watched her more closely. I avoided her. My uncle said it was my fault, and he’s _right.”_

Hermione was shocked. She and Harry exchanged silent glances, each recalling the conversation they’d had a week ago in which he told her that Emma’s mother had blamed her for the death of her brother. What was _wrong_ with that branch of the family? Why did they do this?

Fenris spoke up. “It was the fault of a criminal blood mage and no one else. Never forget that. Your uncle lashed out at you in grief. He didn’t mean it.”

“I think he did,” she whispered. “I think my mother meant it too, when Carver was killed.” She wiped her nose. “It should have been me.”

“No,” Harry said, hugging her. “It shouldn’t have been _either_ of you. There is one person who died tonight who deserved it, and we killed him. You killed him.”

“I might have been able to find him earlier—stop this from ever happening—if I hadn’t killed that Orlesian blood mage a few years ago,” she said. “He was telling the truth that it wasn’t him. He was on the trail of the real murderer. Maybe….”

“You don’t know that,” said Fenris. “They were probably in cahoots. There was a reason that mage was obsessed with the killer and I don’t think it was because he cared deeply about protecting women.”

Hermione was a bit taken aback at the elf’s harsh words and chilly tone, but Emma seemed comforted in a small way by the blunt words spoken bluntly. She sniffled and nodded.

“Remember what she said,” Varric urged. “She said she was proud of you. Her last words.”

Emma gave him a hollow, empty, dead stare. “Was that even her anymore? Maybe that mage summoned some sort of— _thing—_ to occupy the body and _that_ was what spoke to me.”

“It _was,”_ said Harry. He lifted her chin so that she had to look him in the eye. “Emma. I am a mage. That was no spirit of the Fade, no demon. It was your mother. I promise you. I would never lie about that.”

She collapsed into his arms, crying freely. “I just wish… we’d been on better terms,” she whispered. “There are things I would have told her, if I’d known we had so little time left.…”

There was nothing anyone could say to that, so they sat silently while she cried. Finally she lifted her head from Harry’s shoulder again and looked at Hermione. “How long does it take?” she croaked.

Hermione took her hands. “It never stops,” she admitted. “You never get over it. You just have to… continue living.”

“Would you like to leave Kirkwall for a time?” Harry asked her gently. “Travel with the Grey Wardens? See your sister? We have allies traveling with us from time to time.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

* * *

When Hermione finally left the house, she felt drained and hollowed out. She knew before she left that that would take a lot out of her, but that still had not been adequate preparation.

 _Emma still has her sister,_ she thought. _She has her sister, and her uncle—even if he is an arse—and she has Harry. He’s sort of family. He could be. They should marry. I… have no family anymore, that I know of._ Briefly she thought about her mother’s relatives in Nevarra, the nobles who had helped her and her father escape and sent coin to them surreptitiously to support their quiet existence, but she had never met them.

_I wish I had family._

She reached the door to Tom’s house. He opened the door for her, a gentle expression on his face as he welcomed her inside.

“She’ll be all right in time,” Hermione said in response to the unasked question.

“It’s not easy,” he said. “I lost all my family too—one member by my own hand, but I had little choice.”

She had forgotten about that; Tom had killed his own uncle to avenge his father—and possibly mother too. She wished that he didn’t practice blood magic; otherwise Emma probably would have appreciated his presence in her time of grief.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I need a drink.” She glanced at him. “The Tevinter brandy is fine this time. I think I need the nectar of the Old Gods after this.” Surprised at herself for calling it that, after the nickname had so appalled her when he first said it at the beginning of their acquaintance, she nonetheless accepted a shot of the liquor and sipped it, relishing the fine taste.

Tom sat across from her, gazing at her thoughtfully before pouring himself a shot. “To those who have gone before,” he said quietly, raising it in a toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As gamers know, what happens to Hawke’s mother is canon. I’m going to do something extra with it for Tom and Hermione in the next chapter, though. And I’ll confirm that Tom had no contact whatever with the murderer. Some blood mages seem to conspire together in this game, but not all of them. His reaction to the news is sincere.
> 
> The following is intended for anyone who started reading my other ongoing novel-length fanfic first, _Spells of Healing_ , a _Dragon Age_ fic that features a sweet Anders, and then decided to check this one out afterward. (I’m writing the other one under an alternate pseud, so it won’t show up under just betagyre. You’ll have to click the Dashboard link for my account to see all of my fics under both pseuds.) This note is potentially a major spoiler for this fic (this one, _Idealist_ , to be absolutely clear!), so I’ve put it [behind a link on my WordPress](https://betagyrewrites.wordpress.com/2018/09/18/a-note-for-readers/). Visit at your own risk!


	9. No Safe Streets in Kirkwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I didn’t abandon fics! I’m very sorry for the long delay, but this story got a heavy revamp, elimination of a major future plot arc that I just couldn’t deal with after #MeToo. No changes were needed to existing chapters, though.
> 
> (It wasn’t a plot involving rape. I’ll go ahead and spoil what it was, since you have a right to know what the hell caused this story to be delayed so long, and also because chapter 8 contains fragments of hints about it that weren’t major enough to warrant changing. Hermione was going to become pregnant and Tom was going to only agree to marry her if the baby turned out to be a mage, because it was “shameful” for a magister to have a non-magical child. If the baby was not a mage, his plan was to maintain her and the baby in Kirkwall and not show them off in Tevinter. There will be no baby in this story at all, though, because even though it _was_ going to be a mage, that would have made Tom’s character too gross toward Hermione for me—or, rightly, her—to forgive. Completely excising that entire arc reduced the size of the story by numerous chapters and required me to expand another arc that is about Tom’s political affiliations and slavery.)
> 
> I don’t know if anyone is even reading this story anymore, because nobody ever commented about chapter 8 or asked if I still intend to update. But if nothing else, I am committed to finishing it for my own self-esteem.
> 
> Warning/caution for anyone coming to this from my _Dragon Age_ stories that are not crossovers: This is not an Anders positive story. That will have absolutely no effect on how he is depicted in _Spells of Healing and Power_ series, which will continue to be super sympathetic, but I conceived of this fic before I actually liked him (in fact, before I had even played the games myself, and though I knew the plot events, I was relying on the opinions of my pro-Templar bff for characters), and I am keeping that consistent throughout this fic.

After the shocking death of Emma’s mother, Kirkwall became duller for Hermione—because Emma did go with Harry to talk with her little sister, after all. The absence of the vivacious rogue left Hermione feeling discouraged. She had been right; family _was_ important, and that was taken away from most mages. _I supposedly have extended family in Nevarra,_ she thought, _but I do not know them. If I did find them, if Tom helped me find them and I wrote to them, would they even care to make my acquaintance? Some of them supported and aided my parents, but people change… and the relatives who did that might be gone now, too._

Tom was very busy with something—politics back home in Tevinter, she supposed. That reminded her of something she meant to ask him, which was a welcome distraction from the fact that both of her close friends had left town.

“What’s this?” she inquired casually.

“Accounts,” he said. He was sitting at his desk, scrawling something on parchment, which he covered at her approach. A smile formed on his face. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Her eyebrows went up. “I’m not _worried_ about it,” she said at once. “I was just curious. Although I wonder now if I _should_ be worried. Is someone extorting you for money, like the Carta, perhaps?”

Tom chuckled. “Anyone who tried to extort me for money would… well, let’s just say it would end poorly for them. These documents are just for groups that I help fund by choice.”

“Oh, like Anders’ Resolutionists.”

He nodded. “Yes—like that. Pro-mage groups like that, also groups that advance the Tevinter perspective in the south….”

“The Tevinter perspective? That must mean something distinct from pro-mage advocacy, I presume.”

“Tevinter is one of two nations in Thedas governed by a representative body rather than just a single ruler,” he replied. “The other is Ferelden. If I may say so, the Magisterium is better than their Landsmeet, because magisters are chosen based on bloodline and on merit. So is the Archon.” He paused, regarding her with a slight smile, before continuing. _“You_ could become a magister as a citizen of Tevinter, in theory, if the body deemed your magical merit sufficient.”

Hermione smiled back. She had been concerned for a minute; Tom had seemed very intent on hiding these documents, but if he was just funding groups that advocated for mages and for representative government, there was nothing amiss in that. His reference to her hypothetically living in Tevinter reminded her of a question of which she meant to remind him.

“I would like to go back with you to Minrathous the next time you go,” she said.

He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, brow furrowing. Hermione began to grow concerned; why would he have to think about this? Why would it be a tough decision?

Finally he turned to her. “Are you really sure about that?” he asked.

“I’ve asked you before,” she replied. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it the last time I asked.”

“And I don’t have a problem with it now,” he said at once, sounding sincere. “I just… want you to make sure that you are prepared for… certain things that you’ll see there.”

“Tom, I know that slavery is practiced in Tevinter, if that is what you mean. It’s still your home, and there is so much ancient history and knowledge and _magic_ there. And after all, _you_ don’t have slaves.”

He reached for his pen again, pasting a broad smile on his handsome face as he reached for a blank sheet of parchment. He scratched a date on it for a month from now as he spoke, not looking at her. “Then the next time I go, you shall come with me.”

“That’s a promise?”

He hesitated for another moment before nodding. “It’s a promise.”

* * *

Feeling somewhat more lighthearted, Hermione decided the next day to go to the Hanged Man with Grace and Anders after the Healer closed his clinic for the day. The drinks were still mediocre at best, but it was a fun place, and sometimes she just wanted a break from being in Tom’s mansion all day.

“So,” Grace drawled over a pint, one hand leaning heavily on Anders’ back as she became tipsy, “I wanted to thank you, Hermione, for talking some sense into this man.”

The Healer tensed, and Hermione suddenly felt a chill in the room. “I would ask you to explain that, but I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said. “Remember who he is to you, Grace.”

“I couldn’t forget that if I wanted to,” she replied, a sideways smirk on her face. “Although I think he’s still privately carrying a torch—”

“No, Grace,” Hermione said firmly, not liking the direction that this was going at all. Did the woman not have any sense? Or… _oh._ “You’re drunk,” she said, gently tugging the beer stein away from Grace. “There’s no need to say this, especially in front of him.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed. “But there is,” she said, staring pointedly at Anders. “After I started to guard his clinic, you’ve no idea how often I had to listen to his complaints about the rapist templars and the fact that the magister, and not he, rescued you from them.”

 _“Enough,”_ Hermione said firmly.

Anders scowled at his girlfriend and stood up, a deeply offended look on his face. “No, it needed to come out, didn’t it, Grace?” he said hotly, downing the remainder of his drink and slamming it on the table. “You just can’t let anything go. Whether it’s the fact that I ever had a fancy for anyone who wasn’t you, or the fact that I’m not your precious dead Decimus—” He broke off, collecting himself. “Hermione’s right. You’re drunk. I’m going home, and I’ll try to forget this when you return because you are drunk.”

“No, don’t go,” Hermione urged him, upset that her night out with friends had turned into this. She didn’t want to be in the middle of their romantic relationship. She didn’t fancy him at all and he didn’t make advances toward her anymore. Why was Grace doing this? _And who was Decimus?_ Hermione wondered.

Anders gave Hermione a sympathetic look. “What choice do I have? Grace and I need to talk, obviously, but not right now while we’re both… somewhat under the influence. Try to enjoy your night out with her, though.” He rose from the table and stalked out the door.

Grace glowered at the tabletop silently. Irritated that she had blown up the friendly night out, Hermione said, rather unsympathetically, “Well done. You know, he hasn’t said a word to me that’s disrespectful of your relationship. Not once.”

The other mage scowled. “I know he hasn’t. It’s more subtle than that. You don’t see as much of him as I do. You would notice if you were in my place. I’m his second choice—or third, or even lower.”

 _Well, I certainly understand that,_ Hermione thought, remembering her annoyance with Harry over a similar subject. “Who was Decimus?” she said, her voice gentler.

Grace sighed. “So you know that I escaped the Circle of Starkhaven when it burned, along with many other mages? Decimus was the leader of our group.”

“And you were close to him?”

“I… all right, I admit it, I wanted to be closer to him,” Grace said grudgingly. “Anders was correct about that. But no, he was just our leader, and I admired him. He was one of the best mages I’ve ever known.”

“He… died, then? But not in the fire itself?”

“Emma Hawke murdered him.”

Hermione almost spat out her ale in shock. _“What?”_ she exclaimed. “But she supports apostate mages!”

“She supports _herself,_ Granger, and she says she did it because he attacked her with blood magic,” Grace said, still glowering.

“Tom is a blood mage,” Hermione protested, making sure to keep her voice too low for anyone else in the tavern to hear. “She may not approve, exactly, but she hasn’t tried to do anything to him.”

“She’s probably too much of a coward to take on a Tevinter magister,” Grace spat. “Look, Granger, I know you count her as a friend, but I don’t think you can trust her. She looks out for herself and that’s it. She has no _real_ principles. She fights crime in the city as a vigilante now, but I heard—Anders told me—that when she first came to town, she was a criminal mercenary herself because that’s what it took to get coin. So her fucking vigilantism can be seen as betrayals of her former colleagues, as well as _silencing_ them over what they know about her!”

Hermione’s head was spinning. “No one has ever told me not to trust Emma Hawke,” she said. “Quite the opposite. You’re the first. I can’t help but think that this is strictly because she killed this Decimus.”

“She was a mercenary who did criminal work. Ask that dwarf who tags around after her, Varric Tethras. He’ll confirm it. That is a verifiable fact, not my opinion.”

“Grace, was Decimus an abomination?”

 _“No,”_ Grace said firmly.

Suddenly a conversation from a while back filled Hermione’s memories. _“Grace, unfortunately, was involved peripherally in it by a leader, now deceased, who led them astray. A plot to try to force demons to possess Templars to show that they were vulnerable too, to attack the order. Hawke and I were among the group to put an end to that.”_

“Wait,” Hermione said, frowning as she recalled. “Anders mentioned this to me once, and I think you were even there when he did. He said—if I remember right—that it was about forcing demons to possess Templars.”

Grace scowled. “Decimus had nothing to do with that. That was a Resolutionist plot before Anders took them over. The Resolutionist leader he was talking about was a demon-worshipping woman who hired out a whore to do her dirty work.”

“So… this happened after you became a Resolutionist? And after Decimus died?”

“Yes. In fact, it might not have happened if he had still been alive. _He_ might have taken over the group and stopped it before they could do that.”

Hermione made note of this remark in her mind; it seemed that Anders’ resentment over the dead man’s place in Grace’s heart was entirely justifiable.

“He was a blood mage, but he was just trying to help those of us who had escaped Starkhaven! And Emma Hawke killed him.”

“Did he attack her first?”

Grace was silent.

“Grace, did he?”

“She was working for a Templar!” Grace burst out. “She was there to try to convince us to go quietly to Kirkwall’s Circle—which, it turns out, is worse than Starkhaven’s was—with this Templar. I told you, Hermione, she’ll do jobs for anyone; she’s still a mercenary at heart who believes in nothing except gold. Decimus was just defending us! _He_ had principles.”

Hermione sighed heavily and rubbed her eyes as she closed them. This seemed like a needless tragedy all around. She emphatically did not agree with Grace’s characterization of Hawke, but if Grace had fancied this Decimus, then her views of Decimus’s killer would be colored by that. Hawke probably would have let him live if he had not tried to attack her.

“I’m sorry that he died,” Hermione said, trying to be compassionate in her words and her tone. “It sounds as though it didn’t need to happen, and… I understand why you hate Emma, but the Emma I know wouldn’t have killed someone just for practicing blood magic to protect fellow mages. If he attacked her first, I know this is hard for you to accept, but she had the right to defend her own life, Grace. Everyone does.”

“She was doing the bidding of a Templar,” Grace said defeatedly. “Explain that one.”

“I can’t—not without knowing who the Templar was and what were the circumstances,” Hermione admitted.

“Does it matter? You escaped that place because of Templars who were committing rape. We didn’t know about _that,_ but we knew we didn’t want to be locked up in there.”

“Maybe the Templar accosted her. Maybe her only choices were to go after you or to kill this Templar, and she didn’t want to do that to someone who hadn’t threatened her.”

“I advised that,” Grace muttered. “She… meant to go back and lie to him. Decimus… didn’t believe her. And I don’t blame him now,” she said defensively. “Anders doesn’t trust her either. It’s why he doesn’t want you to tell her that he is the leader of the Kirkwall branch of Resolutionists.”

Hermione sighed again. “I’m very sorry that he died,” she said again. “Truly, I am. And I’m not going to tell you what to think about Emma. You have the right to like or dislike her as you choose. But Grace… he _is_ gone. There is nothing you can do for him now, and you have Anders. It doesn’t help Decimus now for you to let Anders get away from you. Anders is alive, and here, and you’re hurting him by comparing him to a deceased man. If you see this as Decimus giving his life for your group of mages… how can Anders possibly live up to that? There’s only one way that _I_ can tell. Do you want _him_ to die for the cause too?”

Grace sighed heavily. “No, I don’t want that. Maker’s breath.” She drained her stein. “Let’s go home, Granger. Apparently I need to talk to him.”

* * *

Despite the heaviness of the conversation and the disquiet that was now in Hermione’s mind regarding Emma Hawke, she was feeling good about herself as she and Grace left the Hanged Man. Her words at the last seemed to have made a real impression on Grace, and it might just save her relationship, Hermione thought. She hoped so. There was too much pain and suffering in this city already; any little bit that she could do to help her friends was important.

They had made their way to Hightown, almost to Tom’s house, when the first spell struck Grace.

She swore, grabbed her staff off her back, and whirled around fiercely, trying to see where it had originated. Hermione was instantly on her guard, memories of the encounter in Darktown still blasting through her mind. She saw a flash of light coming from down one street and, with a sweeping motion, cast a shield in front of herself and Grace to block the incoming magical attack.

“More blasted gangs!” Grace swore as their attackers at last appeared.

Hermione was deeply concerned about the numbers. More and more people kept appearing from dark corners and empty alleys, most of them armed with ordinary weapons, but several of them with mages among them.

Hermione knew that now was not the time to worry about exposure as a mage. These people meant her harm. Either they were trying to kill Grace and anyone with her, or it was a case of mistaken identity, or—and this was what Hermione feared most—they were associated with the slave trade. She flung a ferocious blast of cold outward that froze several mundane attackers solid, allowing Grace to cast a spell that—to Hermione’s shock—shattered several of them on impact, chunks of red ice flying down the street. It was astoundingly violent… _but what choice do we have?_ she thought darkly as she continued to fight.

When the first mage, the one whose spell hit Grace to begin combat, went down at last, she realized that they had managed to pick off a majority of the non-magical fighters— _and_ that there were at least two distinct groups of people here, based on their uniforms. What was this? Were they assassins fighting over a kill? And if so, _why?_ This had to be directed at Grace rather than herself, Hermione thought.

“Anders is right!” Grace exclaimed, felling an archer who had already put an arrow through her shoulder. “This city itself is cursed.”

Hermione doubted that the presence of street gangs was exactly what the Healer was researching in his attempt to map all the maleficarum and abominations of Kirkwall, but… on the other hand… the leaders of these gangs were certainly mages gone bad. She shouted in dismay as the one she was fighting cast a blood magic spell that drew a debilitating red stream from her midsection. That _hurt—_ and she suddenly felt wobbly on her feet. That was a lot of blood.

“Go to the Void!” Grace screamed at the mage—and to Hermione’s shock, a red vapor passed through the air again in the opposite direction, from the blood mage who had just attacked her to herself.

_But that means Grace just…._

There was no time to think about the fact that Grace had performed blood magic too. She had done it in Hermione’s defense, after all. Hermione got back on her feet, gave the other woman a grateful look, and resumed her most violent spellcasting.

Finally, both women were utterly drained, but they _were_ the last ones standing. At least a dozen bodies in various conditions lay in a semicircle around them. Grace spat in anger on the ground and began to rifle through one of them.

“Are you looting?” Hermione said, approaching her.

“I wouldn’t refuse their loot if it’s valuable,” she replied, “but I am actually just looking for any insignia, anything to identify what gang these bastards were from.”

“I think they came from two separate ones,” Hermione said as she sat down to the task.

“Hmm.” Grace tore off a symbol from the robes of a dead gang member and compared it to the symbol on the clothing of another. “You could be right.”

“Let’s go to Tom’s house,” Hermione urged her. “He might know what gangs these are. And even if he doesn’t, you need to re-energize yourself.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue but thought better of it. “All right,” she said gruffly. “I’m still taking these to Anders, but we’ll see what the magister has to say about it too.”

* * *

Tom was already in a dressing robe when the two women turned up at his door, their clothes singed and torn, their hair mussed.

“What is the matter?” he exclaimed, letting them in at once.

“We were attacked,” Hermione said, “in _Hightown._ We defeated them, don’t worry—none of them got away to tell tales on us—and we picked up insignias from their bodies in the hopes that someone might know what gangs these are.” She handed over the torn patches that she had gathered.

Tom accepted the scraps of embroidered cloth and turned aside, bringing them into the light of the nearest rune-lamp. His brow furrowed deeply.

“Tom?” Hermione said, easing closer to him. “Do you recognize them?”

He stared ahead, refusing to look at her face. “Did anyone attacking you act… well, enthralled? Controlled by someone else?”

Hermione shook her head. “They very much acted on their own initiative. There _were_ blood mages among them, but the others were in control of their own minds.”

Tom glowered at the symbols.

“Tom, you know what they are, don’t you? What are these gangs? What do they do?”

He set down the patches of fabric. “You have some, too, don’t you?” he said to Grace.

She nodded suspiciously.

“Then you’re going to show them to the Healer, no doubt. Well… this one”—he pointed at the symbol that looked shabbier, and which was embroidered on cheaper fabric—“belongs to a group that… all I can presume is that they are involved in the slave trade. It makes no sense that they would attack you two otherwise.”

“And the other one?”

“That is the symbol of the Crimson Weavers, a blood mage guild.”

A potent silence hung in the air. Grace was glowering fiercely at the magister, but it was Hermione who spoke again. “And this troubles you,” she said, surprised at how hard her tone was. “You’re not _part_ of it, are you?”

“No,” he said. “It’s a southern gang. Tevinters… we don’t need to join gangs to exchange magical knowledge with each other.”

“It didn’t look as if they were ‘exchanging magical knowledge’ out there,” Grace said tartly. “They were trying to kill or capture us.”

“Did they fight each other?”

“Not that I could detect,” Hermione replied. “It was all of them against the two of us.”

Tom cursed fluently in Arcanum and turned aside, the lamplight silhouetting his figure. “They could have joined forces,” he said. “Most likely, they were trying to capture you—until you whittled down their numbers too much.”

“Capture us for slaves?”

“Slaves or… blood sacrifices. Or both.”

Another silence fell. Grace scowled, then gathered up her belongings. “I’m off,” she announced. “This is clearly too much for a Tevinter citizen to take, the knowledge that some of his countrymen, or people who supply his country with slaves, or who study the same field of magic he does, are up to no good.” Scorn filled her words.

“The last I knew of these groups, they didn’t ambush random people on the streets,” Tom said defensively.

“Yes, well, looks like they do now,” she retorted. “We took care of it. The useless Guard will see the bodies tomorrow and wring their stupid hands about it, no doubt. Not my problem. I’m going to Darktown now. Have a good night, Granger.” With that, she left the room at once. Hermione heard the front door close after her in a few moments.

Tom continued to lean over the table, staring at the scraps of cloth with the gang insignias embroidered. At last Hermione cleared her throat, getting his attention again.

“Tom, it can’t be that surprising to you that some people who are… what’s the word… adjacent to Tevinter are doing evil things.”

He looked up. “Hermione, I am trying to exert influence in southern politics to improve life for southern mages. Groups like this—events like this—hurt that cause. I saw that Grace had a wound on her arm. She is a blood mage too, isn’t she?” When Hermione nodded, he continued. “So she must have used it to help in the fight. It’s just magic like any other, you know—but people who use it the way these gangs do give it a bad name and make my life a lot harder!”

Hermione stiffened. “Make _your_ life a lot harder?” she repeated.

He realized his mistake and tried to apologize. “I didn’t mean—of course you were attacked tonight, your life put in danger, and I did not intend to minimize that—”

“And yet you did,” she said, her face falling. “Your political goals are important, but forgive me if I don’t see them as _quite_ as important in the immediate term as my own life and freedom!” Annoyed and rather offended, she stalked out of the room.

Tom stood in the lamplight, watching her retreating form, a pang of regret on his handsome face—but it faded into a hard resolve quickly. He picked up the insignias and headed into his study.

The spirit of Purpose moved into the room from the library, watching silently, providing him with an additional motivation to do this. He sat down at his grand desk and began to shuffle through papers, parchment, and notebooks, a deep scowl on his face. He picked up a pen and inkwell and began to scratch furiously.

Before the night was ended, he had several sealed letters to go out. Messengers who took new letters at night were expensive in Kirkwall, due to the danger of going out—apparently— _anywhere,_ but Tom could afford it. The letters went out to their recipients by the time he was ready to go to bed.

Hermione was not there, he noticed with concern. He stepped over to the room he had let her stay in before they became a couple and cracked the door open slightly. She was asleep there instead. _I’ll have to make it up to her tomorrow,_ he resolved. _Especially since… these gangs were…._ He broke off that trail of thought. It was too dark and unpleasant to continue.

He would just have to be very careful with whom he did business in the future.

* * *

Hermione was still very hurt the next morning, irritation and emotional pain in her young face. Tom swallowed his ever-present pride at the sight of it; he knew what he had to do, difficult as it was for him.

“Hermione,” he said, his tone even and penitent, “I didn’t mean, last night, to diminish what you and Grace experienced in the fight. Your lives were at stake, but I was more concerned with… gangs that gave Tevinter and blood magic a bad name.” He swallowed. “I think it was because, by the time I learned about this, you were already safe, out of danger. Not that that excuses it,” he added.

She had been regarding him coldly until the end of this statement. Her face softened. “I understand, I think,” she said. “You love your country—and I _was_ out of danger by then. But there could be more of them. I cannot believe that was the entirety of either gang, let alone both of them.”

 _It wasn’t,_ Tom thought, remembering his late-night letters. “I doubt it,” he agreed noncommittally. “You’ll just have to be careful. Maybe going out at night in pairs isn’t the best idea.”

She glowered at the table, not irritated at him, but at the situation. “I hate it, but you’re probably correct. I assumed I would be safe in Hightown, of all places….”

“There are no safe streets in Kirkwall.”

“Clearly not,” she agreed. “Law and order in this city are… well, I won’t say nonexistent, but certainly… challenged.”

He nodded in agreement.

“That must be because of all the conflicting agendas at play and the weak leadership. I presume it’s better in Minrathous, which is the ancient capital of an empire—a nation today—and which has had strong leadership for centuries that wouldn’t permit threats to grow and fester like the Viscount and other authorities have here.”

Tom actually cracked a smile, though it was a wry one. “I’ll bring you the next time I go. You have my word.”


End file.
